Symphony in the Twilight
by Angel of Mystery-145
Summary: 1870-Sequel to APCC* Erik resumes teaching his star pupil, while struggling with feelings far from angelic. Christine regains her dark Angel as her teacher, eager to learn his Music of the Night. While fate unveils a future unforeseen by both of them. R
1. To That Moment Where Words Run Dry

_**In a life no longer familiar to them, he struggles to prevent a future that can never happen, the chilling future once revealed to him in a world of shadows. In direct opposition, she hopes to bring about a future long desired.**_

_**But Fate will not allow some moments to be undone, and in a bizarre twist of what might have been and what is dreamed for, the days unfold - **_

_**leading to the future that no one could have ever expected …**_

**.**

**This story contains a bit of everything- angst, drama, fluff, romance, lighthearted moments and heavy ones, humor, mystery, suspense and more. E/C pairing. Sexual situations, some very explicit and building as story progresses (please note the M rating- it's there for a reason). I'll put warnings on those chapters. A tad of fantasy, but nowhere near as much as in Phantom Christmas Carol. This takes up where that story left off – the same night – but is really more of a romance story that is a follow-up to what happened.**

**I don't own the characters; I just like to play with them. :) based on 2004 movie, with some Kay thrown in … **

***Those underage, please do not read.* **

**For those who didn't read A Phantom Christmas Carol, this also is a "what if" story ... what if the events of Il Muto never happened, because, like Scrooge, 4 spirits visited Erik beforehand to show him the past, present, and future, and the tragedy that could result with his decisions? What will Erik now do with the knowledge of all he's learned and the resolve he made - to protect Christine above all else, even from himself - especially when she fights his wishes at every turn, having made a few decisions of her own...**

**To hear from my readers encourages me to keep writing, that someone out there wants more. It's a wee bit frightening and lonely to write out into the yawning black hole of the Internet with no response...so please review. *angelic, hopeful smile (Okay, begging is over. You can read now. lol)**

**And so, without further ado, I take you …**

* * *

**To that Moment Where Words Run Dry**

**I**

**.**

Within a breath of time, everything had changed and nothing had changed; and it was that ill-defined change that the Phantom now dreaded.

It seemed a lifetime ago, not mere days, that spirits from the netherworld visited him on the eve of Christmas and warned of a dire future for Christine should he proceed with his plans of retribution. He had not mentioned the horrific experience to her; indeed, she had been excited and talkative throughout most of the evening ...once he agreed to remain her teacher.

_A foolish mistake!_ cold logic vehemently insisted.

His bleak soul refused to listen.

Her voice ... her presence was what inspired his heart to beat.

_God, could he not have at least that?_

As they returned to the mirror door, she remained unusually quiet. He wondered if she now regretted her impulsive words and his subsequent choice. Remembering the sincerity that glowed in her eyes when she spoke her piece, as well as her brave but foolish trek through his dark dungeons to seek him out, he did not believe a sudden case of misgiving to be the reason for her silence ...

Periodically he glanced over his shoulder, to ensure she was well; he needed no such assurance with regard to her continued presence. He sensed her … he _felt_ her. Though he did not guide her by the hand – did not trust himself to touch her after her desperate embrace of earlier when she begged him to resume his role as her teacher - she held fast to the folds of his cloak and walked so close he could feel the faint brush of her curls each time she craned to peer ahead or glanced behind.

He drew a steadying breath when her curls again whispered across his neck. Somehow, he would, _must_ begin afresh and extinguish the growing ardor he felt at the mere thought of her; must forget his desire to be with her and for her to become his. It was enough that she wanted his companionship and continued aid in her vocal instruction. It _had_ to be enough.

To keep her with him, as he once planned, after all that transpired … he could not allow it. Could not link her name to scandal as he almost did on the night she disappeared from her locked dressing room. Then, such worldly concerns had not troubled him; he had resolved that she would become his bride and gave no consideration how others might construe her mysterious disappearance. At that time, Madame Giry doused the managers' suspicion of her student's nocturnal activities, telling the prying men she'd found Christine sound asleep in a corner of the dressing room behind the screen. But now matters were different; he must exercise discretion to keep her reputation intact.

Their evening lessons would continue, these early hours beneficial. Few within the opera house would know of Christine's whereabouts, most of them sleeping in ignorance or absorbed elsewhere in their lewd activities, and he wished to use his pipe organ for accompaniment, something he hadn't been able to do when visiting with her in the chapel for their afternoon sessions. Still, the Phantom did not wish to soil his rising starlet's reputation in this theater where gossip and speculation ran amok, and as freely as the wine of Bacchus. Therefore he deemed it necessary that she be found in her dormitory bed with the dawn of each new morn. He also realized, after tonight's embarrassing farce, she would daily require sleep before her lessons began, an arrangement he must work out with Madame Giry.

The Phantom walked more slowly as they approached the last corridor, knowing she should hurry to her dormitory but conversely not wanting her to leave. At the mirror door, he turned. Her pert features were drawn, uncertain, as if she struggled with a challenging decision.

"We are here?" She glanced at the dank walls of rock on either side. "I didn't recognize it. When you took me through this corridor after my debut, there were candles all around, and Madame carried a torch …"

He cursed himself for a fool. No wonder she'd been silent. She dreaded the darkness, a childhood fear she had yet to overcome. With his night vision honed from two decades of living beneath the earth, he'd grown accustomed to prowling the gloomy inner corridors, often lit by the fewest candles or none at all; he preferred it, to hinder discovery by any who might trespass. Several hidden entrances led to the dark tunnels beneath the theater other than the mirror door. But with his mind teeming by all that had taken place between himself and his ingénue, and with the endless questions instigated but as yet not posed, all of them whirling like a dervish inside his head, he'd given no thought to carrying a torch or that she would prefer as much light as possible.

He lifted his hand in command. Instantly a candle's flame flickered and grew steady in the iron holder between them. In the soft glow, her eyes widened and sparkled with relief and wonder.

"I am a magician, Christine," he explained, somewhat amused.

"So Madame Giry told me. Is that how you were able to sing into my mind? And to throw your voice in the chapel so that it seemed you were standing right beside me?"

"That was ventriloquism. Another skill I learned during my long years of solitude. Pardon my oversight in not lighting the way for you as I did on that first night. You should have spoken sooner and told me you were afraid."

"When I am with you, I'm not so afraid." She tilted her head in curious regard. "But now I wish to know, Erik. Why did you pretend to be my angel these many years?"

He remained silent and she continued, unwilling to let it go. "When I was a child, I think I can understand. I was hurting and lonely and distrustful - and frightfully timid around strangers, something I've never completely outgrown. Your pretense as my Angel might have been the only way I would have listened to you then. Since Father promised he would send me an angel of music and you are so musically talented. Your voice, from the moment I heard it, comforted me." She faintly smiled. "But once I grew into a woman, why did you not tell me the truth? Why did you wait until my debut to reveal your mortality?"

She seemed as hesitant to return as he was to let her go, but he could never disclose such a personal confession. Once, he might have. But no longer.

"The time for conversation is behind us. It is late, Christine," he added gently at seeing her dissatisfied little pout. "You must slip inside your room before anyone should notice you missing."

She nodded, reluctant, and made as if to pull back the mirror, then dropped her arm back to her side, again looking up at him. The strained look she wore during their return journey revisited her features as she pulled her brows slightly together.

He sighed. "What is it, Christine?"

"The Bal Masque will take place at the end of this week."

"Will it?" In striving to rectify his offenses, the days slipped by him unaware.

"Yes, it will." She moistened her bottom lip and pulled at it with her small, perfect teeth, clearly nervous. "What you said, about my life being my own and that I may share the hours that I am not immersed in my training with whomever I choose – did you mean that?"

His heart seemed a sudden deadweight, but he forced the words to surface without inflection. "You are free to do as you please, Christine. I will no longer hinder you in that regard."

"I should like to attend the ball, now that I am of age to do so. It would be my first ball to take part in and not merely observe from a distance."

When she should have been fast asleep, he thought with a hint of wry amusement. As children, Meg often persuaded Christine to tiptoe from their beds and eavesdrop to view the gaiety. He had always stood nearby, in the shadows, watching over her and her little friend.

"I shall no longer restrict you from engaging in such affairs," he said wearily.

"I am told it will last until the early hours of morning. Until dawn, even."

"It is nearing dawn now," he replied with mild sarcasm. "Though I do not recommend you make a routine of these late nights or any future outings. To do so would not be constructive to your voice."

His explanation sounded pathetic, however true, considering his plans for the timing of her lessons. Yet, no matter that he resolved to let her go and allow her to live her life, he couldn't abide the idea of a string of handsome suitors vying for her companionship to each and every thrice-damned social function Paris held. Even the thought of one suitor was difficult to stomach. One suitor in particular.

"And if I should desire an escort to accompany me?" she queried as if reading his mind.

"Has someone asked you?"

"Well … yes." She fidgeted. "But I refused him, in part because you didn't allow me to attend social engagements at the time."

The Vicomte. Of course. Who else.

"Do as you wish, Christine." Despite his supreme effort to remain impassive, his reply came out terser than he intended. He flicked the lever of the door. The mirror slid open with a determined push of his hand.

Her smile wavered, her eyes suddenly uncertain. She entered the dressing room, hesitated, then turned suddenly, putting her warm hand atop his at the edge of the mirror before he could close it.

He stood paralyzed by her light touch.

When she spoke, it came out in a whisper. "In that case … what I wish … is for you to take me to the ball, Maestro. I should like you to be my escort."

His mouth parted in disbelief. He drew a rush of air into his lungs. Still he could not seem to breathe.

At his stunned response, she hurried to say, "Is it inappropriate for a lady to issue an invitation? I sadly lack in areas of deportment involving such matters, as you doubtless must know since I've never attended any real social gatherings escorted. I have only the other girls of the chorus as my example, and they are often bold in their advances with men." When he still didn't answer, she looked worried. "I hope you're not angry with me?"

"Angry?" At last he found his voice, hoarse though it was. "How could I be angry with the bearer of such a sweet request …? You want _me_ to take you to the ball?" Her words struck him fully.

"I understand you may not be willing to share in others' company yet. But all the guests will be masked so you should feel at ease." She said the words quickly, as if anticipating his refusal. He didn't tell her he had planned to attend for weeks. "Such an affair shouldn't cause you undue discomfort. And I think you should meet some of the performers you've watched from afar, in an effort to show your goodwill. I would love to introduce you, since I spoke of my great teacher on the day of Hannibal's opening." She stopped to inhale a breath. "You have proven to be a man of your word, and this further act on your behalf might help convince the managers that you no longer wish anyone harm, that you also desire peace and an end to the discord among you."

Strangely the idea of being in one accord no longer rankled since his meeting with the two owners and their agreement to all his wishes. Although he still didn't think they had any business running an opera.

"You truly wouldn't mind being seen with me?"

"Of course not." She looked utterly confused. "I would be delighted to have you by my side."

_Delighted! _Her soft, wondering words brought to mind another evening, when he first brought her to his inner sanctum and held her close. He looked at her glowing face now, so full of expectation. By the gentleness in her eyes and the manner in which her lips softly parted, did he dare hope she entertained similar thoughts?

His eyes fell shut. Of course she didn't. This was much too dangerous. Less than an hour into his reluctant agreement to initiate a new association with his student – and he strongly entertained former plans to make her his bride.

He could not do this.

_Could not._

The shadows of the ghostly future loomed, waiting, deadly, ready to ensnare ...

He pulled his hand from beneath hers and took a step back, knowing that his futile longing clouded his damnable but necessary resolve the more time he spent in her presence.

Her face fell. His heart rebelled. And with it, all of his practical reasons and worthy intentions once more disintegrated to dust.

"If you are certain—"

She nodded before he could finish. "Yes," she whispered.

He could not deny her this one last request, and it _must_ be the last, to share in the gala and her company as her teacher. Secretly, he longed for any opportunity to be with her, pathetic wretch that he had become. He could control the future ... could he not? Since he had been given an unwilling look into those things which must never occur, to know what to avoid?

"Very well, Christine. I will take you to the ball." The faint words seemed illusory, a figment of a dream, certainly not real and belonging to the disfigured Phantom of the Opera.

She smiled brightly as if he granted her an enormous favor. Already beautiful, her changed countenance made her a vision to behold.

Baffled by her response, he quickly lifted the candle from the holder and handed it to her. "You must go, before the others awaken. The corridors will be dark."

"Thank you," she breathed, her finger brushing the edge of his as she took hold of the slim taper. Even with the glove, a shock traveled between them, a tiny spark that made his heart quicken. She gasped softly. "G-goodnight."

Still in a daze, Erik watched as she slipped through the room and the door that stood opposite.

He should not have let her go alone, not at such a late hour. Many were the reprobates that wandered the corridors of the opera house under the dark cover of night, seeking to fill their voracious appetites for debauchery.

Silently he followed her flickering candle through the network of corridors. He kept far enough behind so as to avoid detection, wishing only to make certain she arrived to her destination safely.

Near the winding staircase that led to the dormitories he spotted a flash of red and noticed Joseph Buquet, the worst of the degenerates, loiter in the dim corridor adjacent. His evident interest fastened high above, on the doorway of Christine's room through which she had just disappeared.

A cold fury surged through the Phantom's veins, igniting his blood. The stagehand was rarely where he should be and often crept into the women's dormitories on the sly, to visit with the more promiscuous dancers. Yet if the swine should dare so much as lay a finger on his innocent Christine, he would rue that day; for on that day the Opera Ghost would make a fearsome comeback. Peace or no peace, spirits or no spirits, he would do what he must to keep his Angel safe.

With his eyes trained on Buquet, who moved to the staircase and placed his boot on the first step, the Phantom scowled and prepared to act. His ire rising, he clenched his hands at his sides, itching for the feel of taut catgut between his fingers. The Punjab no longer presented a viable option, however, even for such scum as the vile monsieur. But other methods existed beyond murder, ones that would ensure an end to the animal's depraved schemes and keep the managers unaware that the Phantom of the Opera had returned …

_If_ such a day should occur.

Buquet suddenly tensed and looked around. "Bonjour? … I-is someone there?" he stuttered nervously in a stage whisper then belched. "Sh-show yourself."

The Phantom narrowed his eyes in disgust but remained silent.

Ill at ease, the miscreant swaggered from the staircase and retraced his steps to the corridor, a half empty bottle of liquor dangling from his hand.

The shadows acting as his concealment, the Phantom followed.

Perhaps a little ... inducement was in order after all.

.

* * *

**xXx**

**A/N: Dun dun dun—DUNNNN! Wonder what Erik is up to? (*cue the gasps)**


	2. Orders, Warnings, Lunatic Demands

**A/N: I appreciate the reviews! Barb, yeah, I had fun with that too. ;-) The Masquerade is coming, but not for awhile … TF- well, you know the old adage, one step forward/ two steps back, and often change/growth takes time… but that doesn't necessarily mean the worst here … then again it doesn't necessarily mean the best either (heh heh heh – I know, I'm awful)… but I think, (not sure), that you might be mixing his promise to her in this story with the promise he made in stories The Quest/Treasure? In this one (after seeing her death in future realm of PCC and knowing he caused it) he promised her that her life is her own and he wouldn't bind her in chains to him any longer - **_**not**_** that he wouldn't kill for her safety … to the managers he promised that he would stop his hauntings as the O.G. - but only if they kept their word to him …**

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**Orders, Warnings, Lunatic Demands**

**II**

.

"Mademoiselle Daae, one moment. We would like a word with you."

Christine flinched at hearing Monsieur Firmin's patronizing tone and turned to see Monsieur Andre's lascivious eyes skim her form as both managers approached the empty corridor she'd taken. She wished she were not so scantily clad though she wore the same costume as all the other dancers. Yet the manner in which they stared made her feel as if she wore nothing but skin! Ever since the morning they arrived at the Opera Populaire, when she danced in her harem costume and sensed them ogle her as if she were a prime cut of beef fit for their consumption, Christine employed any excuse never to be alone in a room with them. They may be the new owners of the theater, but they did not own her!

She barely curbed an audible groan. The day had started out so well, too. Though her Angel had yet to visit her dreams again with his song, she had persuaded him to continue her lessons. And, (though she felt she must pinch herself to acknowledge the truth), he was actually taking her to the Bal Masque! Surely even the managers, with their double-edged words and furtive expressions couldn't deflate her happiness.

She was mistaken.

"Messieurs, excusez moi, I am late for ballet practice."

"Has Madame Giry not told you of your advantageous change in circumstances?" Monsieur Firmin's smile below his twitching mustache was disparaging. "We have decided with the next opera we produce to feature you as the lead."

"Due to your acclaimed success in Hannibal, of course. And other laudable assets you clearly possess." Again, Monsieur Andre's gaze swept from her white clinging corset and voile tutu, down to her stocking legs and ballet slippers.

She swallowed over her unease, not failing to notice they made no mention of her teacher or his part in her triumph. "Yes, Madame has informed me. I am very grateful for the opportunity, gentlemen, but I really must be going …"

"There is no need for you to engage in further dance instruction." Andre stopped her, blocking her exit with his black walking stick before she could successfully make her escape. "You are no longer to take part in the chorus. With your newly acquired role, you must further develop your voice in training."

No more ballet? Troubled, she frowned. She had always enjoyed those hours with her best friend and would miss taking part in the classes, rigorous though Madame Giry made them. "My teacher is well aware of my change in status …"

She didn't add, "Since he alone orchestrated this rise in my career," though she wished to. Oh, how she wished to put these "scrap metal" men in their place! To do so, however, could threaten her own. She managed what she hoped passed for a pleasant but remote smile.

"… And our lessons are continuing as planned, as they always have," she finished aloud. "Please address my teacher through Madame Giry with any concerns or instructions you may have for me."

"Your teacher," Andre sputtered, "You don't mean _the_ _Opera Ghost_?_!_"

"He does have a name." She hesitated revealing it, at once realizing that had Erik wished them to know, he would have told them. They regarded her oddly and she realized it wasn't so many weeks ago when she informed these same managers that she had no knowledge of his name. "You may call him Maestro," she finished weakly, "as he is certainly a great teacher. A true genius."

"But we understood he had retired his services to you," Firmin said, his tone mystified, at the same time, disgruntled.

"It was only a misunderstanding, which has since been resolved." She shrugged the matter off as inconsequential. "He is very much my teacher and will remain so as long as I'm here." Hearing the words expressed brought a faint smile to her lips and a warm glow to her heart.

The managers wasted no time in robbing her of both.

They shared a look she couldn't define. Firmin staunchly cleared his throat and again focused his attention on her. "Be that as it may, there is another issue we feel it imperative to discuss. It has come to our attention that the Vicomte de Chagny has shown an avid interest in your, ah … career."

"Yes," Andre smiled ingratiatingly. "A most avid interest."

Their coarse manner insinuated more lay beneath their smooth words. She uneasily recalled how Erik had come to similar conclusions and spoke before she thought. "Any interest you presume the Vicomte to have in me is in my voice alone. Before my operatic debut, he never once recognized my face."

"So you two _have_ met before?" Firmin stated as if he'd long considered the possibility.

She felt trapped in her admission and curled her fingers into moist palms.

"The Vicomte and I were childhood friends. His family took their holiday near my father's seaside cottage one summer, where we met. That was the year before my father died and I came to live here."

Again they shared a covert look and she wished to know what messages passed between them. Or perhaps she would rather not know.

She didn't have long to learn her answer.

"Then, as you two are formerly acquainted, you will have no reservations spending time in his company, should he express the desire," Firmin declared rather than requested. "He is our most esteemed patron …"

"Our sole patron," Andre added.

"And we wish to keep the Vicomte happy."

"You do understand what we're telling you, Miss Daae?"

Confused, she looked back and forth between the managers. "You wish me to spend time in the Vicomte's company?" She thought back to the secret confessions she'd overheard a few of the more wanton chorus girls relate of the men they had entertained. "His _private_ company?"

"Nothing clandestine," Firmin lifted his hand in a placating manner. "Don't look so shocked. Though if you were to change your mind and he asked it of you, we wouldn't begrudge you the opportunity. Many women find him handsome, I am told. And his family is very wealthy. Such an arrangement could prove rewarding to you."

"Quite a coup, my dear," Andre added conspiratorially.

She stood with her mouth agape, her face aflame, certain she must have misunderstood. Hoping she had. Surely they were not suggesting that she share with Raoul moments of an _intimate nature_ to guarantee their continued financial success! Illicit activities of which Madame Giry sternly disapproved to the exclusion from the ballet chorus for the unfortunate girls who she discovered defied her rule. Secret activities Christine had only an inkling of knowing. Her meager education into such forbidden topics she'd also overheard from smatterings of personal confidences the ballet rats shared with one another. Of them all, only Meg befriended her, and like herself, Meg was an innocent.

"We understand the Vicomte asked you to the ball," Andre hurried to say as if sensing her offended withdrawal. "And you actually refused him."

"I need no escort. I already have one." She felt more grateful than ever that Erik accepted her invitation. True, his agreement to take her followed her polite refusal to Raoul, but the managers didn't need to know the order of events.

Another galling look of secrecy passed between them.

"It would be wise if you gave your apologies to your present escort, fabricate whatever excuse you wish - tell him your managers ordered it if you so desire - and accept the Vicomte's invitation." Firmin's false smile hardened to steel. His small dark eyes brooked no refusal.

Christine blinked. "Surely you cannot be serious. That would be terribly rude, not to mention incredibly heartless!" She had no intention of going to the ball with anyone other than her Angel.

The look in Firmin's eye warned her not to forget herself. "It would not do to insult our new patron either."

His chin lifted in a supercilious air, a chilling match to Andre's expression. "Consider well your future here, Miss Daae. Due to our decision, you will be the new diva. A lucrative career in the opera is well within your grasp. However, without the funds to operate this theater, we would not be able to open our doors to the public. No crowds mean no revenue, and no revenue means no career. Without the backing we need, we would have to sell. And if no buyer comes along _this time_, you easily could find yourself out on the streets, without the convenience of the free room and board you have so long enjoyed. Do I make myself clear?"

She blinked at his cruel inference. "Perfectly, monsieur" she whispered, her voice shaky, the hot rush of tears stinging her eyes. She forced them back and clenched her teeth. She would _not_ cry in front of these cruel, insensitive men. It was no surprise that they once dealt in junk. Their minds seemed composed of it.

"Most excellent." He inclined his head in mock civility. "Then we will bid you adieu."

"As there is no longer a need for you to attend ballet instruction," Andre suggested, "You might go to the theater. I recall seeing the Vicomte looking things over there. A visit from our lovely young new diva would be most welcome, I daresay."

Christine remained stock-still and rigid as they left the way they came. Moments later, she also moved away – in the opposite direction of the theater.

How _dare_ they!

How could they?

She could not voice her opinion; they made that very clear. Nor could she refuse. She was only a chorus girl, a mere servant beneath their churlish leadership. No matter that her role in the opera would soon change to the most esteemed lead, they would likely always see her as a silly child to be manipulated.

With her arms crossed tight over her churning stomach, she hurried to the dressing room. She slammed the door shut behind her and leaned her back against it, disbelieving of her fate. How could they make such demands? Just when everything was at last going so smoothly! Just when she had her Angel back.

He would never understand. Nor should he have to be made to.

Giving vent to her utter helplessness and angry frustration, she grabbed the first object her hand met with – a tall vase of day-old pink mums – and hurled it at the closest wall, envisioning the managers' heads as she did. Porcelain shattered, spraying the rose-papered wall with dark spots of water. Flowers, their stems broken, their petals crushed, dropped to the worn striped rug.

Open-mouthed, she stared to realize what she'd done. Her outrage dissolved as quickly as it erupted, and oddly her stomach also settled into a strange, frozen calm, her pulse easing into its regular steady beat. Blinking, she slowly turned her head and caught sight of her reflection.

Moisture filmed the cheerless eyes of the lost girl staring back at her from the looking glass, appearing as trapped as she felt.

"Mon Ange …" she whispered, wishing for his counsel.

If she called out, would he hear? He often told her she had only to call his name and he would come to her.

She moved to the mirror. Her fingers brushed its edge. It was then she noticed the dark crevice - which meant the lever on the opposite side had not been locked!

Giving in to her urgent need to see him, she slid the mirror on its track, retrieved a burning candle, and stepped inside the dark corridor. The chill, musty air hit her face, bringing with it the unwelcome return to reason.

What was _she doing_? She could not do this, not when she so desperately was trying to earn back his trust. She had promised him never again to venture alone through the long, winding passageway to his hidden rooms. And yet, she acknowledged sadly, her need to refrain from seeking him out came from a stronger awareness than that.

To trouble him with her quandary now, when he worked with such diligence to make amends, could only lead to sure devastation. If he learned of the managers' threats to her (she wasn't so naive not to recognize when she was being bullied) he might revert to a fresh wave of terrorization. And she couldn't be the cause for that to happen.

Miserable, she retreated and closed the mirror door. Her limp fingers idly traced down the cold glass of her forlorn image as she sank in a dejected huddle to the carpet and set the candle next to her.

_Why must life be so difficult?_

It wasn't that she disliked Raoul; she really didn't know him well enough to form an opinion. She told Meg they were childhood sweethearts, but she supposed that was a bit of a stretch for a girl then barely seven. Perhaps, in a sense, he had been her first love those three months, but he was quite altered from the boy who'd splashed into the ocean to retrieve her flyaway scarf and built flimsy castles with her on the sand. The few times they briefly conversed since his arrival at the opera house he seemed more of a stranger. Kind and polite, if a little overbearing; unable to take "no" for an answer. Nor did she forget how he recognized her only after he heard her sing. Before that he'd just brushed past as if she were a useless stage prop. His unintentional slight had injured her pride, but only slightly. He could have had no way of recognizing her in all the years that had elapsed since their summer by the sea.

No matter – assuming his alleged interest in her had rekindled, she had no wish to embellish their youthful acquaintance, and certainly not as the managers insinuated!

Cheeks burning red, she studied her huge eyes that seemed to take up most of her thin face. "Haunted eyes, bland and colorless as dirt," she'd heard one of the chorus girls cattily remark to another.

Pursing her lips in curious scrutiny, she noticed nothing spectacular about her mouth either. It was too wide and full, her skin too pale, her form too skinny. And her hair was much too curly and wild – the curls a pathetic frizzed mess on humid days or after hours of rehearsal, like now. She was neither plain nor stunning. Nor did she truly care either way.

As long as her Angel was pleased by her appearance, (and surely he must be to draw so many flattering pictures of her to cover his walls), as long as she possessed an extraordinary voice that interested him enough to train her … that was all that mattered. Outward beauty wasn't important. Her mother had been plain and reserved and that hadn't prevented her father from seeing beneath to her exquisite spirit and taking her as his wife, loving her, even beyond death itself.

Christine frowned at the shallow ideals of those she had grown up with in this theater. Just because the Vicomte was handsome why must everyone think she should swoon at his feet? Even her dearest friend Meg, equally enamored, couldn't understand her reticence to seek his company. She tried to explain that she didn't really know him anymore; she kept silent on how much better she knew her Angel. He was still very much a mystery to her. But a loathsome gargoyle he was not. Despite his physical imperfection, what little she'd seen of it, she thought him quite striking.

She let out a hopeless, frustrated little breath, recalling their recent disagreement on the subject.

Outward appearances aside, with Raoul she shared one childish wish during their many games of pretense ages ago. To become Little Lotte.

With her Angel she entrusted her deepest, darkest secrets throughout nearly all of one decade, though at the time of her remorseful confessions she'd thought him a true angel.

Her skin heated from the inside to remember what other confidences she had shared. Some of them quite personal: romantic meanderings of a girlish heart eager to experience the novel taste of love. Such confessions, both in the chapel and in her bed, had often dwindled into daydreams aired. Daydreams he had heard … daydreams shyly spoken to a man …

Not an angel.

The reflection of her eyes widened with unease. Had she said anything about _him_? Surely not! He never responded with discomfort, which he most assuredly would have done had she made such admissions to her Angel of Music.

To … _Erik_.

The mere thought of his name, still so new to her, brought a hopeful smile to her lips and a fresh flush to her cheeks. Memory of their recent encounter when she acted so confident, demanding that _he_ listen to what _she_ desired, put the sparkle back in her eyes. She stiffened her spine and lifted her chin, again determined.

_A child does not know her own mind to rally in successful opposition, while a woman must often make momentous decisions and stand by them, no matter the odds against her._

Her former words to him – words he once told her – became a mantra that rallied her dwindling courage. She had faced down the legendary Phantom of the Opera and prevailed. What were two pompous junk managers in comparison?

Her Angel -_ Erik_ - had never once betrayed her trust; she could always rely on his guidance. And yet … she was considered of age now, a woman. No longer a mindless child living inside a world of captivating fantasy.

This was as momentous a decision as she would ever make, the odds not in her favor, but confront them, she must. Alone, this time. Without her Angel. Without her friend, Meg. Even without Madame Giry's stern supervision.

If Christine were honest with herself, she made her choice years ago in shamed ignorance. Now understanding, no longer ashamed, she would faithfully guard her decision and find a way to see it through to the end.

For her, no other option existed. Not since the day she discovered a man, not an Angel, dwelled in her midst…

A glorious creature of substance.

_Not_ a phantasmal being.

And she would have it no other way.

.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Just a note here, so no one is thinking that Christine is considering him with anything like disgust- "creature" in this time period of the 19th century didn't always mean monster, like it does today. It is one of those words whose meaning altered with the passage of time, and in the 1800s was often used as a term when discussing man or mankind. It was used for women too- as in "beautiful creature." In today's dictionary, the word still has that reference, though few think of it as relating to man nowadays.**

**Okay, enough of the serious – see, I'm being nice to you guys. No cliffie. (yet- cackles with glee, rubbing hands together) I really am quite sane and kind (well, maybe not always to my characters). Really, I am … honest … see my halo? 0-:-) – (muahahahaha)**

**So, think of me, think of me fondly… won't you please reply?**


	3. Nighttime Sharpens, Heightens Sensation

**Nighttime Sharpens, Heightens Each Sensation...**

**Chapter III**

.

The Phantom arrived promptly at ten for his protégé and found the dressing room ... empty.

He stared with his mouth parted in disbelief. Never one to endure meekly waiting when it came to matters of the opera, he grasped his wrist behind him, beneath his cloak, and paced the corridor like a caged tiger. With curt frequency, he glanced through the mirror into the darkened room.

What matter had been so important to dismiss punctuality? Why was she not ready as he specified? She _knew_ he did not like to be kept waiting!

The minutes passed, and with each one, his irritation increased.

What must have been well beyond a quarter hour later the dressing room door opened, and Christine appeared, her cloak concealing her from throat to ankle, her thick ringlets mussed and wild. Beyond her, Madame Giry looked toward the mirror, frowning in disapproval while she pulled the door closed as she retreated, though he knew she couldn't see his image. He narrowed his eyes, her unwarranted judgment of his decision not improving his mood.

Christine turned the key in the lock and approached the mirror as the Phantom slid it open.

"Where have you been?" he growled. "It is long past the hour you were due to arrive."

"Forgive me, Maestro. I won't be late again."

"See that you remember your promise!" At her downcast face and heavy-lidded eyes, his tone came softer but remained stern. "This is unlike you, Christine. Do you not feel well? Perhaps we should postpone tonight's lesson."

"No, I'm fine," she said quickly, as if afraid he would command her to return to her dormitory bed. "It has only been a long and trying day."

He nodded and moved aside, still unhappy with her sudden disregard for promptness. He hoped her tardy arrival had nothing to do with the blasted Vicomte. He couldn't insist she shun the irksome boy when he alone had verbally surrendered his claim on her and made the promise never to interfere in her social activities. But the mere thought of them together set his teeth on edge.

She stepped into the corridor. With his magic the Phantom lit the torch he'd brought. Her eyes shimmered in gratitude and she smiled for the first time. He shut the door and tripped the lock. Hesitating momentarily at the thought of touching her again, he held out his hand for hers and she trustingly placed her fingers in his gloved palm. He could swear he felt their softness through the thick leather.

Their trek through gloomy corridors and winding stairwells was as silent as before, but when he looked over his shoulder, he saw none of the anxious strain on her features evident the previous night. Indeed, her face lit up when they approached the fourth cellar and she again saw the black stallion from the opera house stables, waiting to take her below, to the level of the lake. Her eyes shining like a child's at the break of yuletide, she put her hands to the Phantom's shoulders as he lifted her onto Cesar's back.

Once they reached the lair in his gondola, he helped her step out onto the stone bank. She wobbled and fell toward him. He caught her, holding her against him a careless moment, her every curve pressed warmly to his hard body, before he firmly set her a step away and retreated the same distance.

"Are you ready to proceed with your lesson?" Covering the surge of desire that rushed through him at having held her so close, he moved toward his mini stage, pulled off his gloves and doffed his cloak, tossing it to the chair there. "Or would you prefer to partake of a light meal first? An apple perhaps?"

Her eyes didn't twinkle as they so often did, but she faintly smiled, understanding his wry offer with regard to her previous behavior to be in jest. He strictly forbade her to dine two hours before a practice or performance to maintain the crystal perfection of her voice.

She followed him up the steps to the pipe organ and he took his place on the bench. Keeping her cloak on, she took her stance close to him, her hand resting atop the glossy instrument, and assumed position. First, he took her through a series of practice scales ...

The minutes passed ...

Or perhaps they fled for their lives.

His forbearance again dwindling, until he could take no more, he slammed his hands down on the keys and growled. "You try my patience, and only waste my time and yours if you do not wish to take your instruction seriously."

Tears of frustration glittered in her eyes. "I _am_ taking this seriously."

"If that was an attempt, it was poor indeed. No clarity to your tone, whatsoever. Unless perhaps you were wishing to emulate a nightingale underwater?" he dryly observed then spoke more firmly. "Did you eat before you came? Is that why you were late?"

"No," she pouted. "I only took the lemon in water that Madame brought me. I came straight from my bed."

He frowned, regarding her soberly as she seemed to melt into the side of the instrument. Had he a feather, he could topple her. Yet if he yielded to her evident lethargy and wasn't so strict, she would never be ready in time for the next opera. He let out a world-weary sigh.

"Stand taller, do not slouch. Again!"

He resumed where they left off, but all too soon ended the notes with another wild flourish of his hands and spun on the bench to glower at her.

"That was worse than poor, it was atrocious. And tell me, my dear, why you persist in lagging behind like a puttering caboose?"

She heaved a great sigh. "It's only that I'm so tired!"

"I understood that you came from your bed."

"I did."

"And so? Did Madame not allow you several hours of sleep as I instructed?"

"Sleep? Ha! I tried but _couldn't_ sleep. It's so noisy in the late afternoons! Outside and inside both, and my bed is right next to a window. The stagehands must be building something; hammers were forever pounding in the distance."

She straightened her spine, _at last_, and calmly observed him with a hint of curious suspicion. "Two of the chorus girls came into the room while I was trying to sleep, chattering between themselves about Monsieur Buquet. They said he was petrified with fear all morning, unable to do his work well."

"When has the fool ever done his work well?" The Phantom muttered, turning on his bench to sort through the sheets of the musical score he planned for her to sing.

"He claims a hooded specter visited him in the night, in his room, and made terrible threats. The managers found a half empty bottle of absinthe near his bed, though he swears he has no idea how it got there or that he even drank a drop, insisting the ghost was no hallucination, as the managers have now conlcuded." She closely peered at him. "You wouldn't happen to know of this ghost he speaks of, would you, _Ange?_"

Letting his eyes fall shut in what he hoped passed for weary indifference, the Phantom shielded his nose and mouth, bowing his head into his hands. With his fingertips pressed together he hid an involuntary smirk of satisfaction. He hoped his one ounce of persuasion along with a generous dose of illusion administered to the wretched Bouquet would produce a pound of cure—and the licentious beast would forever remember to steer far from Christine.

Rubbing his hands slowly down his jaw, he affected a somber countenance. "This will not do at all," he said, avoiding her question. "To have you stand there as listless as a mannequin. I would likely get similar results if I should put the doll in your place."

"I cannot help feeling this way!"

"I know, Christine." His anger evaporated as quickly as it flared. "I do not blame you. Nor do I expect you to continue in this manner." He sighed in resignation. "It would be wise if you were to lie down for a few hours. We can continue with the lesson after you have rested."

"Oh, yes. That would be wonderful. Thank you, Maestro." Relief made her sag against the organ before she moved up the stairs leading to his bedroom. He watched her sluggish departure until she disappeared from view.

Weighing this new quandary he doubted any room of the opera house would provide the environment needed for restful slumber. Nowhere, but five levels beneath the earth in a tomblike chamber could impart an atmosphere of hushed solitude, day or night. Evidently, as she could find no rest in her dormitory, she would need to come here and sleep before their lessons.

The thought produced a swift stirring of warmth in his loins. How in blazes was he supposed to maintain any sort of distance with Christine sleeping in his bed each night, or rather, the bed he crafted for her when he had planned to make her his bride? Yet, what other option did he have but to allow it?

Growling, needing a conduit for his roiling emotions, the music never having failed him before, he put his hands to the keys and played one of the mellow pieces from the next opera he intended to present to his managers. Soon the melody worked its magic, soothing his tormented mind, and he became a part of the music just as it was a part of his soul.

The hours fell away unnoticed. The Phantom grew absorbed in his compositions, many of them soft and melodious, like a continuous lullaby, and forgot time and place.

The notes shifted into another arrangement, until a familiar tune rose from the pipes and he soon realized he played his prized aria without conscious thought. Seeing her image in his mind, behind his closed eyelids, he sadly and quietly began to sing the words of longing inscribed within the miserable walls of his heart.

"You have come here, in pursuit of your deepest urge, in pursuit of that wish, which till now has been silent, silent ... I have brought you, that our passions may fuse and merge ... in your mind you've already succumbed to me - dropped all defenses - "

Just as last time, he sensed her.

And just as last time, he halted mid-chord in frustrated distress.

The steady notes reverberated and dissolved into the airless chamber. Silence answered, so deep, it seemed eternal.

"W-why did you stop?" Her voice, barely heard, came low and unsteady.

"I did not mean to wake you."

"You didn't ... y-your song ... you, you wrote it for me, didn't you?"

He snorted weakly, staring at his hands still poised on the keys. "Such a grand impression you foster, dreaming child."

His intended slight did not deter her, did not distract her as he'd hoped.

"No ... I don't think so ... you always stop when you know I'm in the room ... but you never do so with the other music you play ..." He heard the whisper of her skirts as she moved closer. "And you have told me that you write all your operas with me in mind."

"Yes, as the _lead_. For the _story _I wish to present. It is all make believe, Christine."

"Then why did you stop?"

"It is a song I have decided will no longer benefit the opera."

"I like it."

"You've not heard all of it," he countered in rising exasperation. "You couldn't possibly know if you would like it or not."

"I recognize the melody. You sang it on the night you first brought me here, when you sang of your Music of the Night." She sounded a little breathless. "The melody is the same, but what little I heard of the words is different ... they make me feel ... different."

He dared not respond.

"Play it for me, Erik." He heard the brush of her gown as she drew closer. "I want to hear all of it. Teach your music to me."

Her innocent words regarding his passionate lyrics, the extent of which she could not begin to imagine, brought all manner of temptations to mind. Slowly, against his better judgment, he turned to look at her ...

And froze.

She stood so close he could reach out and grab her. Instead, he sat motionless and gaped at the sight of her standing in her white nightdress, the backdrop of glowing candles softly illumining the gentle outline of her slender form. Every appealing, unconcealed curve she possessed.

A hot rush of longing almost made him follow through with his first instinct to reach for her and crush her to him. Instead, he broke from his wishful stupor, for that was all it could ever be, and sprung up from the bench to collect his robe from a nearby chair where he'd tossed it that morning. Approaching her, he brought it around her shoulders in haste.

"You must be cold," he used as an excuse.

"I-I'm not cold," she countered, a catch in her throat. "Actually, I'm quite warm."

"_Keep it on!_" he ordered when she moved to take it off.

Her arms fell back to her sides. But the sight of her slight body swallowed in his black velvet robe did nothing to help cool his blood. The sleeves hung past her fingertips, the hem brushing the floor in folds. She looked endearing, vulnerable, and oh so desirable ...

"Erik?" she questioned, his name a breath on her lips.

Such full pink lips ... beautiful lips. They appeared as soft as the petals of a rose. Her cheeks were flushed with the same pink hue, her impossibly long, thick lashes brushing halfway down. She looked up at him in a coy manner that made his heart pound harder than it already did.

"Christine, where are your clothes?"

"I decided it best not to wear them."

"You decided it best n-not to ..." He stammered out the echo of a stunned reply at her quietly decisive words, then clenched his teeth in exasperation. "_Why not_ for pity's sake?"

He stared at her in incredulity, presuming her remark to be innocent. He didn't believe she realized how the candlelight from behind unerringly brought into focus her unquestionable perfection. She was accustomed to wearing insubstantial, oftentimes semi-transparent costumes while dancing before hundreds of people. Her harem costume in Hannibal left little to the mind's eye, and the attire she'd worn when he first brought her to his inner sanctum had been quite stimulating.

But to have her stand before him, as she did now, with those damned lyrics reverberating inside his mind ...

"Once I return to my room, there will be no one to help me disrobe, unless I wake Meg," she explained with a little shrug. "But she doesn't know I've resumed my lessons with you. Only Madame does, and she said it would be best to tell no one at this time, not even Meg. Though I did tell the managers, but I assumed they already knew. The problem is, I cannot unlace the back of my corset. It is too tightly strung and knotted. And I cannot sleep in it with any comfort."

"And you _cannot_ walk about the corridors in your nightdress!"

"I wore my cloak."

In helpless frustration he plowed a hand through his hair, momentarily forgetting he wore a wig. Her eyes briefly lifted higher, and he froze, hoping she had not witnessed the blasted hairpiece move.

Turning from her, he surreptitiously smoothed the necessary encumbrance the fraction needed back into place. He inhaled a breath, striving for some semblance of calm, and again directed his attention toward her. "If we are to continue these lessons, you must arrive fully dressed, no exceptions."

"If?"

"If."

She pouted at his adamant reply; it only served to make her look even more enchanting.

"Perhaps then, if that is the way you feel, I should come in the mornings or the afternoons. At least until rehearsals for the new opera start."

"And what of the current opera - Il Muto? And your ballet classes with Madame?"

"The managers informed me only this morning that I no longer shall take part in the classes, or dance in the chorus. And La Carlotta remains in the lead until I am ready to take the stage."

He scowled at this news. "What of Act III?"

"I no longer sing the aria."

_"WHAT?"_ he bellowed.

Anger at the two meddling incompetents sharpened his disgust. He had purposely refrained from attending the operas, unable to tolerate the wavering screeches the unskilled diva tried to pass off for sopranic notes. But he had thought the sweet chimes of his Angel's voice would have at least given some reprieve to the audience, not that he cared for their comfort. But without a paying audience, the opera house would cease to exist.

"Why would they do such a thing?" he asked, the rein on his temper short as he began to pace. The desire to create more mischief rose up powerfully within, and he clenched his hands at his sides, thinking of the tainted throat spray.

"They said I must use this time to further train my voice." She looked briefly away. "They did tell me I would lead in the new opera, but no more than that. For now."

"The fools!" he bitterly snapped then came to a stop and eyed her, considering. "It is true that you are not yet ready in certain areas. You have much still to learn. But they had no right to address you in such a pompous manner, or to take the aria in Act III away from you. Were they struck both deaf and blind on the night of your great triumph? When has the whining toad Carlotta ever received a standing ovation?" He watched his once again meek student, noticing how she had dropped her gaze to the Persian tapestry spread over the stones.

"Is there something more you're not telling me?"

"No," she said too quickly, a belying flush in her cheeks.

"Christine ..." he said low in warning. "I would know what is troubling you."

In clear agitation, she wrung her hands in front of her beneath the folds of his robe. "I know you are displeased with these state of affairs, but I must ask a favor."

Taken aback by her response of an appeal, he eyed her intently. "What favor?"

"I would like to request that the Opera Ghost does not make a return."

He stared at her in bewilderment. How had she read him so well?

"Please, Mon Ange," her velvet brown eyes beseeched him. "I do not wish for trouble to visit again on my account. Everything has gone well since your truce with the managers – except, of course, for the little incident with Monsieur Buquet. But I feel his lesson was well taught, even deserved." Her lips curved up knowingly, and he couldn't resist answering with a grudging smile in return. "But it is enough now," she added softly.

He released an extended breath. The tricks would be difficult to abandon completely; he enjoyed them so well. "How have you passed the time, if you no longer attend classes or rehearsals?"

"Doing very little," she admitted. "I am La Carlotta's understudy."

"Are you satisfied with such a menial undertaking?"

"Truthfully ... no," her words came hesitant. "I wish to do more. I'm not accustomed to such inactivity." She twisted her hands together again, her fingertips barely seen in the large sleeves of his robe. Her helpless act instilled within him the strong desire to protect her and give her whatever she asked.

"I would like to take part in the ballet again," she admitted. "At least until rehearsals for the next opera begin."

He felt assured of her answer, but asked the question, regardless. "Do you feel you can do both? Engage in the ballet and excel in your lessons with me?"

"I've had no problems in doing so before," she said, her expression hopeful. "I've always enjoyed sharing in the ballet with Meg, even if Madame does put us through such strenuous routines. But such exercise helps me feel stronger and more alert. I know tonight's practice was wretched, but I truly was so sleepy and couldn't concentrate on all you had taught me."

He gave a slight nod of pardon. "You should not be forced to relinquish what gives you pleasure." The irony of his words didn't escape him. Though to give up his Angel hurt much worse than the idea of surrendering his pranks. "I will speak with the managers regarding the continuance of your dance."

"As the gifted composer, Erik?" she asked carefully. "Or through another note from the notorious O.G.?"

"If those two clowns who run my ... _this_ theater betray their word to me, I cannot promise a lack of just reprisal, Christine. But, at this time," he conceded reluctantly, his mouth twisting up at the corners in sardonic amusement, "the Opera Ghost will make no further visitation."

"Thank you, Mon Ange!"

Her beatific smile was all the thanks needed. He certainly didn't expect her to throw herself into his arms in another explosive hug rivaling the one from the night before – and stood momentarily shocked when she did just that.

Heat flashed through his veins at the pleasurable feel of her curves once more pressed against him, but this time he didn't move or push her away. Tentatively he raised his hands to press against her back, returning her joyful embrace with one featherlight. He still felt unaccustomed to physical contact, to being so tightly held – God, to being held at all! She was sweetness, and she was warmth ... but this ... this was madness ...

With his present struggle concerning her, he didn't dare linger close to her a moment longer, and gently put her from him.

"As to the other matter, I have decided," he said quietly, hoping he wasn't pounding more nails of bittersweet temptation into his coffin of self-sacrifice. Somehow knowing he was. But there was nothing to be done about it. She needed a bed and quiet; he had both. "You will sleep here each night before we begin your lessons."

Her eyes grew wide in surprise, but she showed no hesitance as she nodded.

"Come fully clothed and bring your nightdress. And surely you can find some contraption to wear that requires no lacing in the back? Something that you will need no assistance t-to remove?"

Good God, was he _blushing_? And again - _stuttering?_ His mind's sudden image of her soft generous curves, in silhouette beneath the thin bed gown ... hidden beneath the much too large, much too loose folds of his robe, had him hurriedly turn back to the safety of his organ and take a seat there.

"I'll look in the costume area," she said, following him. "I remember seeing something, if it's still there ... a gypsy dress with the corset worn over the chemise and not beneath. Laced in front instead of behind. Most unusual, but it should work."

"Excellent." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath for calm. "And now, shall we proceed? We still have a few hours before dawn breaks."

Answering his gracious smile with one of her own, her eyes sparkling with life, Christine again took her place beside the pipe organ. The Phantom resumed the practice scales, keeping his eyes fixed to the score, and was pleased to note the quality of her voice greatly improved. Perhaps this nightly routine of her spending a few hours of rest in his home wouldn't prove a disaster in the making, and all would turn out well ...

Only later would he recall his credulous and oh so foolish thought, and miserably laugh.

**xXx**

**A/N: A bit of fluff and fun … but there will be angst coming, a touch of mystery, more drama, and many other things besides. (muahahahaha)**

**I so appreciate the reviews – indeed, you have made my night. :)**


	4. Darkness Stirs and Wakes Imagination

**A/N: It is a bit difficult to make Christine act childish, without making her seem stupid, then making her act mature in the next moment and having it come across as real - but I am trying very hard. lol She is at that bridge between girlhood and womanhood, and I'm trying my best to relate her character in a believable way without making her pathetic or unlikeable. I just hope this is working... thank you to those of you who are giving this story a chance. I know there is a lot better out there, so I appreciate it very much! :)**

**All right, on to the story...**

* * *

**Darkness Stirs... and Wakes Imagination**

**Chapter IV**

**.**

Twice more Christine visited the lair for her lessons, with the legendary Phantom, once her Angel, and now but a man, to guide her beyond the mirror and into his world. Such moments were golden and their world of make-believe seemed to achieve a perfect reality ...

Yet gold didn't always glitter, and reality when scrutinized could crack.

Just as her disposition fluctuated from that of a girl's to a woman's then back again, within scant moments at times, a pattern became apparent with her behavior in how she chose to address him. When she seemed uncertain, nervous, or respectful, she used the term Maestro. On those occasions she became excited or wanted to soothe or even attempt to bend him gently to her will, she called him Mon Ange. And when she grew bold and confident, even somewhat demanding, of all things – treating him as her equal, not as her teacher, not as her guardian – it was Erik.

Lately he noticed his given name leave her lips more often. And in one manner, she seemed determined not only to bend his will – but to break it.

The previous night, the moment she entered his lair, she began her gentle ambush.

"The song you played, Mon Ange, the one you would not finish ... will you please play it for me as I sleep? It seemed quite ..." she floundered for an adequate word, "... soothing."

"It is hardly a lullaby," he refused her quietly. He felt remorseful about the curtness of his manner on the evening she'd been late, and resolved not to lash out at her with his words again. Much of his bad temperament, he realized, had been due to his own frustrations regarding his desire for what he could not have.

"Then you will not play it?"

"No. I will not play it."

She frowned in disappointment and went to bed. Once she arose, hours later, she again drew near to him, where he sat beside his miniature theater replete with tiny dolls he'd carved, and sketched an idea for an arabesque costume for the new opera.

"Before we begin this evening's lesson, I would like to hear your song," she spoke softly. "Perhaps, the pace will help stimulate my blood and fully waken me."

At her incongruous choice of words, more fitting than she realized, he made a slight choking sound. Hiding his expression from her as he stood, he laid his book in the chair he vacated. "It carries no rapid rhythm and hardly will serve any beneficial purpose with regard to your lessons."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "It has neither a gentle melody nor carries a rapid rhythm? What style of music is it then?"

"I told you, it is nothing. A mistake. Too insignificant to mention."

"A mistake?"

"Yes, a mistake," he reiterated firmly.

She didn't look convinced. "I would like to hear what you consider a mistake, Erik."

"No."

"What little I heard didn't sound like a mistake," she petulantly argued. "Why will you not play it for me?"

"Enough, Christine. Let us begin your lesson." He walked to his pipe organ and took a seat, flicking the long tails of his waistcoat free of the bench, thus avoiding her question. "Start with the scale in C major, if you please."

She pouted, but followed him up the stairs and obeyed, and the rest of the night ensued, if not smoothly, at least peaceably as far as lack of further interrogation went.

This evening, she had changed her approach.

Avoiding his bedroom and sleep, she explained she wished only to begin her lesson. He looked at her oddly but agreed to her request.

Once she finished her scales to his approval, and touched his heart with all she had learned of her aria from his new opera, he praised her success. "Brava, my dear! Most excellent."

"It helps when you play. Your music touches the depths of my soul, Mon Ange, and I can think of nothing that affects me so deeply." Her words were sincere, her smile sweet, her eyes shining. "Please, play your beautiful song for me. The one I have not fully heard."

"You should rest," he said, heaving a weary sigh.

"I'm not sleepy."

"In that case, we should continue with your lesson."

He was horrified to see a glint of moisture in her eyes. Good God, was she about to _cry_?

"Why will you not play for me? You never have refused my requests before. Is it that you no longer trust me?"

"Trust?" he looked at her baffled. "This has nothing to do with trust."

"No, it must," she sadly decided. "Ever since I ... did ... what I did." She couldn't bring herself to say the words that would resurrect the hurtful memory of removing his mask. "Otherwise you wouldn't be so quick to stop playing whenever you know that I've drawn near."

"My choice to refrain has nothing to do with trust, Christine," he repeated irritably.

"Are you worried I won't like it?"

He uttered a humorless laugh, briefly closing his eyes and gritting his teeth. His resolve to remain impassive and calm was swiftly beginning to crumble. "Whether you like it or not is of little consequence."

"Then you'll play it for me?" she asked, again hopeful.

"No," he growled under his breath.

"I would never scorn your music or criticize it. _Never_—"

"No. And let this be an end to the matter."

"I adore your music, Erik, all of your music—"

"No, Christine!"

"B-but I don't understand!" Her words quivered. "If it's a song of little significance, as you said, why should it matter whether you give in to my desire to play it or not?"

"_No!_"

"One day I hope to restore your faith in me, Mon Ange." Her lower lip trembled. "I-I swear I never meant to hurt you—"

"**_VERY WELL!_**_"_ he roared, making her jump. _"**I'LL PLAY THE DAMNED SONG!**"_

He glared at her, but his scorching eyes produced a worthless effect as she bestowed on him a most euphoric smile.

Enraged at her intolerable persistence, even more so at his foolish capitulation, he looked away from her glowing face and watched his long fingers follow the familiar path along the keys. The composition sat propped before him, but he had no need to refer to the written notes. They were embedded in his soul.

He played the prelude much too rapidly, taking his annoyance out on the keyboard; but soon the passion of the aria united with his turbulent spirit and he closed his mind to all else but the music, letting his hands revert to the original, slower pace. His anger melted away, and, without at first realizing he'd done so, and not meaning to have done it, he began to sing the haunting words.

His heart pounded when she moved closer and looked over his shoulder at the lyrics he'd written. On her cue, as though the music dwelled deep within her as well, her crystalline soprano gifted the air then joined with his strong tenor in perfect accord, stunning and elating him. Passion and fire blazed to life in their spontaneous duet. His eyes fell closed as he again struggled with his desire to make her his, pouring feelings into lyrics of pretense so she might never suspect their connection to reality.

Their final notes rang triumphant ... then faded ... and the music stilled. Slowly he withdrew his hands from the keyboard, noticing how they trembled, and dropped them to his sides.

Before he quite understood what happened, her slight form fell awkwardly into his lap and she wound her slender arms around his neck in a spontaneous hug of girlish delight, her laughter almost giddy. The shock of his wish now manifested by her soft warmth pressed against him rendered him speechless. He couldn't even think to lift his hands to steady her. His arms hung frozen at his sides.

"Oh, Mon Ange, **_thank you!_**" Her eyes were aglow, her face rosier than before, as she was ebullient with her homage. "That was _stupendous!_ _Simply magnifica!_ Oh, I **_adored it_**_!_ – and it was _certainly_ no mistake …"

He stared at her, still stunned and without words, as she held him and glorified his tainted music with her praise.

Ever since he agreed to continue as her teacher, her sweet, platonic displays of affection astounded and delighted him, each time stripping from the Phantom a layer of his bitter arrogance to unearth the tender, beating heart of a man. Perhaps fear had not turned to love, _for her_, but she had searched and found the man beneath the monster as he'd always hoped. Could that not be enough? Must he always wish for what he could not have?

And yet, though her newfound audacity staggered him, as it did now ... at times even amused him, often exasperated him – it alarmed him all the more, the latter on which he did not wish to speculate, bringing with it visions of that ghostly night ...

Yet, it seemed, even that blessed morsel of ignorance was to be denied him.

Despite his fervent desire not to think of them, the shadows of the future he hoped never would come always persisted. In this present existence, ever since she first persuaded him to continue with her lessons, he had seen her mature into the same astonishing boldness she exhibited in the future realm. But the future vision of Il Muto had NOT occurred! He had seen to that. The screeching diva still headlined the opera and the insufferable Buquet still lived and breathed ... Yet here his Angel sat on his lap_ – on his lap_ of all places – and bolder than ever. As bold as she'd been to brave his lair and confront whom she now knew was the Phantom, the ghost all others feared, in order to _renew_ their acquaintance! As bold as the future image of her had appeared ...

"You simply must include the Point of No Return in this opera," she enthused. "This cannot go unappreciated by all but me ..."

He looked into her hopeful brown eyes sparkling so close and remained silent. "**_This_** opera" had been another opera, intended as a weapon to wield vengeance, nothing more. A trap laid to ensnare his Angel ... who now regarded him with such trust.

The shadows of the future had shown him **_this_** **_opera_**, and though he zealously endeavored to alter the course of such an abysmal fate, he feared somehow those shadows might attain reality if he were to allow the production to be performed. How, he did not know. Or why. The future shown to him had been too scattered for calculable logic. But his ghostly visions had done more than forewarn him; the fear of such a future, of losing Christine, now relentlessly haunted him. And he could never allow such a horror to come to pass!

"Please, Mon Ange," she begged, "I will be your Aminta ..."

He inhaled a swift, uneven breath at the shy but flirtatious sweep of her lashes. He had never planned for any other woman to play the lead. She had been correct to say that every opera he composed was for her alone.

_But this could never be!  
_  
"And you," she went on, oblivious to his inner struggle as she ghosted his cheek with her fingertips – causing his heart to skip another erratic beat, "will be my Don Juan."

"NO, CHRISTINE!"

Giving rise to sudden panic that she had so innocently aired his malicious intent for the opera, he quickly pushed her away and off his lap.

She slowly stood to her feet and rubbed her backside, looking at him in pained confusion.

He shuddered from the fearful dread that had strangled his harsh words, thought as well how oddly cold his lap now felt, but somehow managed to gather the tattered remnants of his sanity. Regretting his behavior, the second time he had ever pushed her to the ground, he held out his hand for hers, surprised when she gave it. Tentatively he caressed her slim fingers with his thumb. He had not meant to hurt her, but he could never do as she asked. Not this time ...

"No, he repeated very softly. "You alone have heard this music. You alone will ever hear it."

"But _why_, Mon Ange? The notes and the lyrics are so ... stirring. And you have such a beautiful voice! Much better than Piangi." She bit her lip. "_You_ should be the one to play the lead – You have told me, he is masked ..."

He cursed himself for the slip of telling her that much, a weak excuse and false explanation he'd given the previous day for his decision not to perform the opera or play his arrangement for her. That a leading man was masked throughout the play and would hold no sympathy with the audience, when in truth, the mask had been written in, only when he planned to arrive and seduce her, during the final scene.

"... No one will see your face if that's what concerns you ..."

He stifled the insane urge to laugh and concentrated on her hand in his. Such a soft hand, so pale and small. Gentle. But that same delicate hand had ripped away his masks, leaving him torn – once in reality and once in illusion. He never understood her purpose the second time. And _that_ is what prevented him from professing his love, and even, (though he was a fool to dwell on the impossibility), asking for that same delicate hand in marriage as he intended on the night he first brought her to his home. That time she had pulled his mask away out of curiosity, she later told him, in her long-held desire of years to see all of what he looked like. Her act had wounded him, but he came to understand her reasoning.

The snippets from his visitation to the future before Don Juan Triumphant appeared disjointed, moving from the swordfight with the boy, to the moment he strangled Piangi. From what little he witnessed, she didn't know of the murder when she pulled his mask away a second time and betrayed him. Not until later had she discovered the truth. So why, _WHY _had she done it? Had she felt trapped? Angry? Afraid? He would never know her reason, never could know her reason ... _NEVER _could allow the future to reach that point, leading to the horror that resulted in her death.

Despite her tender affections, as a doting ward to her guardian, he presumed - an underlying sense that she might reject him kept him silent from speaking his heart. He had sworn never again to enslave her in chains to him. To permit her to do as she pleased and, though it galled him to allow it, to see whom she pleased. But if he should speak and she should spurn his avowal of love ... that, that could destroy him.

"Christine ..."

"I realize I speak of things I know little about ..." She blushed. "It is your opera. And perhaps I'm being impertinent, but at least say you'll consider the idea? At least to keep the song, if not to sing it?"

He sighed and looked up into her eyes, so innocent, so beguiling. "There is something I never told you. An incident that happened during the Yuletide." He paused, the memory almost as difficult as the experience.

"From the tone of your voice it doesn't sound pleasant."

His laugh was devoid of mirth. "Pleasant? No, my dear. It was a living nightmare. One I both experienced ... and created."

At his grave tone, her brows drew together in worry. "Then perhaps you shouldn't recall it, Erik. Whatever you've done or think you've done, it doesn't matter. It's all in the past."

"Doesn't matter?" He arched his brow.

"We've gone beyond all that. And we have begun anew."

"'Beyond all that ...'" He looked at her incredulously. "And how does one go beyond murder, Christine?"

Her mouth slowly parted in horror. "The gypsy?" she asked, her tone almost hopeful.

"Much worse than the gypsy." His voice became very quiet, his somber eyes compelling her not to look away. She gave a slight tug of her hand, to free it, but he held fast.

"Another accident?" she whispered.

"No accident, not this time. Two ruthless murders. Perhaps more." He thought of the plummeting chandelier and the fire it produced as it struck the orchestra pit and the row of seats beyond. Nor had he told her of Persia ... a harsh reality, not illusive shadows.

She regarded him with a measure of disbelief and uncertainty. "Are you trying to frighten me away?"

Was he? "Would you run?"

She hesitated, as if considering the idea. "No. No, I wouldn't. But-but you must tell me what you mean, Erik. I cannot believe you would kill a man in cold blood – not without just cause, a-as you did when you were a child."

He closed his eyes at her sweet naïveté. How little she knew of him.

"I have told you I am a dangerous man, Christine. And I am doing all within my power to see to it that such frightening events never take place. Therefore this opera cannot see the light of the stage. Do you understand?"

"No. You're confusing me." She frowned. "If you haven't murdered anyone why speak as though you have?"

The time had come that he should tell her. And yet, he hesitated. Besides their music lessons, over the years he had taught her literature, poetry, and the arts, engaging in lengthy discussions with her about all three subjects, pleased to learn she shared his interests. Thinking he was an angel, she had unburdened herself to him of her personal joys and sorrows involving her strict ballet mistress, other members of the opera, and even her own deep feelings. But not once had he confided in her or anyone else of his own troubles. The novel idea to share his concerns with this woman he adored both appealed and terrified him.

"You will think me mad," he began, hesitant. "At times, I question my sanity." If not for the blackened rose he kept near his mini stage atop a drawing of Christine as Aminta, he would think his ghostly experience all a bizarre delusion brought on by stress and exhaustion.

"Never," she reassured him, her voice stronger. Her other hand moved to cover his. "For years I have told you my problems. Now let me share in this burden you carry ... Please tell me, Erik. What makes you doubt your integrity so strongly?"

_Integrity_? He almost laughed. Had she not remembered his affliction? Such a grotesque aberration could hardly belong to a creature of merit! Nor could the wicked mischief of the Opera Ghost be deemed laudable by any stretch of the imagination.

He curiously regarded her. "How is it that you possess any faith in me? I deceived you into believing I was something I'm not."

"Yes, you did." She became reflective. "You have been strict with me and at times very angry. But never have I known you to deliberately hurt me. You must have had good reason to pretend to be an immortal for so long, and one day I wish to know what it is. But for now, I hope you will share with me the cause of your current distress. Perhaps, in some small way, I can help. If only to listen."

He regarded her in amazement. How had this happened? He had told Madame Giry that Christine no longer inhabited the body of a child, that much was true, but in such a few short weeks he'd begun to see the compassionate heart of a woman. He remained her teacher ... but exactly who was giving guidance to whom?

He decided at last to do what he'd never done before, to confide in her, to tell her of his nightmare experience, without revealing her dismal future in it. Nor was he ready to tell her of his true birthright, which he'd also learned from past shadows. A troubling matter he had yet to accept or consider.

Knowing such revelations would take a great amount of time and her legs would soon weary, he slowly pulled her back down to his lap, finding he liked her there. Platonic or not, she didn't seem to mind (was it too much to hope she even seemed pleased?) and her arm slipped around his shoulders, her hand resting at his nape, as if it were the most natural thing for her to do.

As he spoke of that night, of its revelations and its horrors, a wealth of emotions colored her expressive eyes. Shock. Dismay. Curiosity. Wonderment ... They ran the gamut. He completed his recounting with the tragic night of the Don Juan opera and awaited her response. She focused on the dark green water, her mind as distant as the mist that curled toward the shore.

"Have you nothing to say?" he asked a bit impatiently.

"After seeing the many candles rise from the water, all ablaze … it's not so difficult to believe the fanciful can happen in this place."

Her small smile did the opposite of reassuring him, though he did feel relief that she believed his story, as fantastic as it sounded. "A magician's trick. All make-believe. This was different. A portent of what would come."

"Oh – but what _could _come, surely? But it won't. Since you saw what _might_ have happened and changed all that with your decision to let Il Muto proceed as planned – surely it's as though it never was?"

"I have no way of knowing," he answered, thinking of her new stubborn boldness that once never existed either, except in the future realm. "But I will take no chances."

She sighed. "Then I suppose I must content myself with these private performances. At least I have that ..."

He looked at her sharply. The manner in which she spoke left a great deal unsaid, and suddenly Erik felt the sensations of her closeness more intensely, the softness of her fingers against his skin, the warmth of her breath escaping her parted lips. He had the strongest impulse to learn the fullness of those lips. To press his mouth to hers and taste her, but he held back. His heart held no such reserve and fiercely pounded out his desire. He wondered if she felt its bold overtures as his eyes again flicked up to hers.

Her lashes lifted slightly higher, the look she now gave him one of nervous uncertainty, and a hint of rose tinged her skin, reminding him of what he must never forget. She wanted him to continue in the capacity of her teacher and guardian. Nothing more. Nothing less. And he must learn to content himself with only that.

He pulled her hand from the back of his neck and pushed her from his lap, gently this time. "Tonight's lesson is over."

"But ..." She regarded him in bewildered dismay. "We've barely begun! It's been scarcely an hour. A long time yet until dawn."

"We have covered the purpose for today." He pulled on his cape and gloves.

"You're angry with me," she decided sadly.

He shook his head with weary regard. "No, Christine, I'm not angry. Tomorrow we will continue."

"Tomorrow? Oh, but – but we can't!"

"'Can't?'" He raised his brow.

"Surely you haven't forgotten? Tomorrow night is the Bal Masque!"

He had forgotten. Not the incredible knowledge that she would be on his arm and he would accompany her to the ball, but the time that had slipped so stealthily away from him.

"Tomorrow is New Year's Eve?" He gathered the pages of the dangerous opera and shoved them into a folder, then tossed it onto a table atop his drawings.

The slightest amount of hesitation preceded her answer. "You do still intend to be my escort? You haven't changed your mind?"

He wondered if she wished he had, but didn't ask. "I will meet you at the mirror at eight o'clock sharp."

"So late?" she mused, uncertain. "The ball begins at seven."

"I prefer to arrive after all other guests have made an appearance. Does that displease you?" He took her by the elbow to escort her to his boat, since she didn't seem intent on moving on her own initiative.

"No, of course not. Not as long as you're there. I do look forward to introducing you to Meg." She paused as he helped her into the boat then took a seat on the bench, looking up at him. "I felt so silly telling the managers, with the entire cast listening that I have a great teacher but didn't know his name." Her face again grew troubled. "I still don't know it. Not all of it. What is your surname, Erik? I cannot introduce you by your Christian name. Madame told me that's not proper, among ... other things." She blushed. Evidently Madame had also informed her that ladies didn't invite men to balls.

Erik kept his expression a careful blank. Up until a few weeks ago, he'd never known the truth of his heritage and wished to. Now, he wished ignorance again afforded him the uncertainty, which in retrospect had been bliss.

"You may introduce me as Monsieur Erik," he instructed. "That is perfectly acceptable."

He noticed her disappointment in the slight downturn of her mouth, a sign it was _not_ acceptable to her, but he was not yet ready to divulge the truth of his birthright; nor did he know if he ever would be. No matter that he was the true Vicomte, no matter that he should be afforded the privileges due to one of such stature – he had been denied by his father, the _Comte_, he thought bitterly, and forced to live in squalor and fear of his face being seen by others.

Had anything truly changed?

The journey back to the mirror was quiet. He led her through the last corridor, pulling the lever that released the mechanism on the door, allowing it to slide open. Only from his side could the lever be tripped. Anyone from the other side without knowledge of the entrance would never know that a secret corridor twisted beyond to a labyrinth of cellars that caged a monster.

He pushed the mirror door wide, stepping aside to allow her to pass. She looked up at him as she brushed close, then stopped.

"What will you wear?" she whispered, as though the question were one of extreme reverence.

Being in such close proximity to her, in such a confined space, addled his thoughts. "Wear?" he repeated in a daze. Though no part of their bodies touched, he could feel her with every fiber of his being.

"To the ball," she explained with a soft smile. "I know the code of dress calls for black, white, silver and gold, so color isn't a concern. And I know this is extremely late to be asking, but I wish to know your disguise. So that our costumes might, perhaps, complement one another in some way?" she ended shyly.

He had chosen his outfit a month earlier. "My costume is red."

"Red?" Her eyes opened wider in surprise.

"I have never been one to practice conformity," he explained with an amused quirk of his lips.

Her answering smile came slow and admiring. "No, I never expected you would. Red," she said thoughtfully and gave a decisive nod, asking no further questions.

She moved through the gap in the mirror then turned. "Until tomorrow night then ... Monsieur Erik."

Her manner was teasing, even flirtatious ... the brief caress of her lips as she suddenly pressed them to his cheek, light and innocent – before, timid again, she whirled away and hurried to the dressing room door.

Long after he closed the mirror behind her and she exited the room, he stood and stared into the empty chamber where he'd last seen her, his palms sweating, his body trembling ...

Shaken by the simplicity of an angel's kiss.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews, my Phantom friends! Please keep them coming.**


	5. Curl of Lip, Swirl of Gown

**Curl of lip, Swirl of gown ...**

**Chapter V**

**.  
**

With vicious resolve the Phantom brought his fingers crashing down on the keys, creating a discordance of sound meant not to soothe but to release: The burn of regret, the pang of guilt, the ache of longing. Even the tiniest flicker of hope, pathetic though hope was to cling to; what had that vain emotion ever brought him except the curse of ultimate disappointment? The churning inside built into a maelstrom of festering emotion that filmed his eyes with moisture and threatened to eat away like acid the walls he'd long ago erected to protect his foolish heart.

With his back to the portcullis, he could not see. With the notes reverberating off the cavern walls he could not hear. But he sensed his expected visitor.

His splayed fingers hovered, trembling above the next chords though he put no pressure to them. "Madame." He continued to stare at the network of organ pipes as echoes of the last booming chords reverberated throughout the chamber.

"Maestro?" Her greeting came weak, somewhat fearful and uncertain. "Did Christine's lesson not go well? She returned so soon."

He had no wish to dwell on past hours. "Atop the small table closest to the boat you will find a black leather folio. Take it to the managers in the morning. I wish them to have it before the ball."

He sensed her hesitance and steeled himself for the inevitable questions.

"Did you tell her the truth?"

He remained silent.

"She deserves to know," she added, her voice a little bolder.

He took in a lengthy breath for restraint and slowly exhaled it. "I have told her enough."

"But have you told her why you deceived her into believing –"

"_**I have told her enough!**_" He slammed his fingertips down on the chords, issuing a terrifying roar. A shattering crash followed from behind. He turned to look over his shoulder.

His black-clad assistant had backed into the table, knocking a masked statue of Nero off the edge and onto the flagstones, almost into the water. He glanced at the shards of plaster amid a litter of strewn pages that had also fallen then raised his solemn gaze to hers.

She looked away quickly, brushing pieces of the broken statue away, and pulled a handful of pages up with her as she rose, stiffening her spine. "She deserves to know why you prolonged the pretense."

"I have no wish to quarrel over the matter, nor do I wish to discuss it further."

"So, you refuse to tell her?" she persisted, a trace of anger mingling with her disbelief. "When I agreed to aid you in this charade of yours, it was under the assumption that on her sixteenth birthday you would reveal yourself _and_ the entirety of your aspirations for her. Yet here it is nearing the eve of her seventeenth year, and still you've not told her? She doesn't yet know how you truly feel?"

"_**Leave it be, Madame!**_" he bellowed, whirling around on the bench. "Do not _presume_ to tell me the extent of my feelings! You cannot possibly understand."

"Oh, I understand only too well, Monsieur." She frowned as she smoothed the pages against the folio she held. "You were long denied what you most wanted in life, and now, when you are finally given opportunity to claim all you desire, you will _deny_ her instead."

He narrowed his eyes in annoyance, his mouth dropping open in surprise that she should so challenge him. Had a new vintage of wine emboldened the two women of his acquaintance? Or had his visit with the spirits softened his disposition?

He should demand that she go, and mind her own business, but curiosity compelled him to bark, "_Deny_ _her?_ What rubbish do you now speak?"

"Not rubbish." She gave him glare for glare. "You forget; I brought you here, Erik. On that night, twenty-two years ago, I looked into the eyes of a forgotten child, broken and without hope. But you struggled and rose above those ashes of ruin. And _now_ you wish to take from her what was stolen from you, by depriving her of all hope she's attained?"

"_I have deprived her of nothing_," he snapped, uncomfortable and annoyed she should bring up the past he worked so hard to expunge. "I am still her teacher."

"Oui. Her _teacher._" The title sounded accusatory. "And what does that entail, Maestro? You brought her here, into your inner sanctum throughout all of one night, sending the managers and the Vicomte into an uproar with your note that she was 'safe under your wing.' Almost defiling what little reputation a chorus girl can possess, and for what purpose? If you will not speak the truth to her, if you choose to continue these nocturnal secret meetings and have her sleep each night in your bed, what do you think will happen –"

"**ENOUGH!**" he roared, coming to his feet so swiftly, he knocked the bench back into the organ. The blaze in his eyes condemned further words. "You severely try my patience, Madame."

She flinched, but did not falter.

"I brought Christine here to live, just as I brought you," she said more quietly. "She too was a vulnerable child, lonesome for companionship. I made a promise to her father, who was like a brother to me when he lived and worked among us here at the opera house. I arranged the meeting between you and heard you make the same promise. Never to do anything that might bring Christine harm. To be a safeguard to her. To teach her your music. You alone decided to make yourself into her invisible angel, and it is to my great shame I allowed the ruse to linger long past her girlhood. At least she now understands you are but a man. Yet the damage is done, Monsieur. You have entranced her, even bewitched her. She would do anything you ask. Indeed, I fear she has little self-discipline when it comes to you."

He sadly smirked. How little she knew. "Do you question my honor? I assure you, Madame, what little honor a murderer and a ghost can possess is well intact, as is her virtue."

"I am relieved to hear it."

He snorted, pacing away. "If I require a pound of flesh, I could find a desperate streetwalker and cross her palm with enough gold to have me in her bed!" He had accumulated much wealth through the managers over the years, though he had yet to experience the joys of the flesh to which he so indifferently boasted. Such intimacies he desired to share only with Christine, though he chose not to reveal that to this intrusive woman who divulged his secrets to others once too often and _DARED_to presume she could order the events of his life!

He spun around to pin her with his angry gaze. "You truly think me so depraved that I would bring a beautiful young virgin to my lair for the sole purpose of igniting her sleeping bud to flame? _Deflowering her_," he spelled out curtly when she stared at him with vacant eyes regarding the lyrics within his aria. "A monster I may be, but to her I wish only to remain what I have always been. Her teacher and guardian, as I can no longer be her angel."

"That is _not_ all you wish for her."

He frowned at her persistence. "She is but sixteen."

"Again, you contradict yourself, Monsieur. Was it only little more than a fortnight ago that you stood where you stand now and informed me that Christine was a woman fully grown? Why should you so suddenly claim otherwise? Your argument is weak; in your heart you know the truth. I was sixteen when I married Meg's father, a man twelve years older than I, and sixteen when Meg was born." Her steady gaze left no doubt to her meaning. "Christine is a woman, soon to be seventeen, of an age to _wed_. As you planned to do." She waved her hand toward the mannequin in the wedding gown.

"Plans diminish, they change," he said tersely, wishing he'd had the forethought to move the doll out of sight.

"Yet deep love will always flourish." Her words shocked him into silence. "At times it may falter or seem even to fade, but one stoke of a tender word, an ember of a caress, and it is fully rekindled. I speak of the deepest kind of love there is, Maestro. The love I shared with my husband and still bear for him, even after his death of five years. The same love I know you have for Christine and, if I am not mistaken, she returns for you. A bond so strong it can never be broken even should you attempt to break it."

Her words needled him. "You _are _mistaken, Madame. _This conversation is finished._ _Go now; leave me in peace._" He strode off in the direction of his bedroom.

"Peace? _YOU_ speak of _PEACE?"_ she called after him. "There is no rest for the wicked, Maestro, a truth perhaps you should keep in mind."

Greatly startled, he swung around at the top of the landing to look at her, her grim words taking him back to the night of the spirits' visitations. The night her doppelganger had uttered the same message, standing almost in the spot where she now stood.

"Maestro? Are you unwell?" she asked in sudden concern. "You look deathly white, as if you've seen a ghost."

The absurdity of her comment had him blankly stare. His mouth curled into a disbelieving parody of a grin and an inane chuckle burst from his lips. It set off a wave of laughter he couldn't curb, nor did he try. At first soft and sporadic, his sardonic mirth rapidly grew in frequency and timbre until he threw back his head in an uncontrollable, wild madness that thundered off the walls.

She backed away, kneeling to snatch up more papers, hugging the portfolio and mess of other papers close.

"**GO!**" he demanded, amid another burst of insanity. "_**Yes, go, damn you, if you know what's good for you …**_"

She wasted no time scurrying to the boat. He stood near his throne and watched her amid another titanic roll of crazed laughter.

Once she poled far past the raised portcullis and out of sight, the Phantom doubled over, heavily dropping to his knees, arms crossed against his burning sides. The raucous laughter abated and a chilling somberness gripped his heart, making him want to weep. It was then that he noticed the dampness on his cheeks, and his last bizarre chortle ended in a despairing groan.

"Perhaps we are all mad," he whispered to the stones. "Madame for attempting to reform a demon … Christine for believing an admirable man lurks beneath her dark angel's disguise … and I, most of all, for thinking I could live within this damnable world of make-believe I've created for the two of us to share, while remaining impassive and sane."

Half draped over his throne, he dropped the unmasked side of his forehead to the scrolled armrest, pressing hard against the metal, wishing to crush every traitorous thought and picturesque image of her sweetness and beauty from his mind.

"Oh, Christine … Christine … what have you done to this wretched beast?" His wail came out a plea, barely heard. "And what have I done to myself, to _you_, in allowing it?"

He had scorned the fates and ignored the spirits' warning. He could have refused, but instead surrendered, crossing the line of restraint many times over. All just to be with her. One day, he feared, he wouldn't be able to retreat, would mire them both in too deep, never to return. The obsession would grow and grow until he again bound her in chains to him. No! ... He could not do that to her.

He must resume his plan and end this, now, before it was too late.

He pushed himself up to stand and moved to his writing desk. With grim resolve, he took a piece of parchment from the blotter, unstopped the jar of ink, and reached for his feather quill, his hands shaking all the while. He dipped the nib in the jar.

_My dear Christine, _

He stared at the words until they blurred into one long black mass.

I humbly beg pardon, but must excuse myself from being your escort … I can no longer see you … I do not wish to upset you, but find to my great distress I am unable to attend the Bal Masque … there is an urgent matter which has arisen that precludes my presence at the ball …

_I regret to inform you that I have been called away on a matter of utmost importance_

With an angry slash of his pen, he boldly crossed out the last excuse, the sole one he'd written among the many revolving inside his head, and flung his pen onto the miniature stage. With one hand, he crumpled the paper in a ball. Why should she believe he would leave the opera house for any length of time when he'd imprisoned himself beneath it for over two decades? She would see through such a feeble lie.

Two more attempts yielded the same pathetic results. With his elbows against the table and clutching his head between his hands, he lamented the wretched state of affairs he'd put into motion.

It was already too late.

His mind echoed the words of his recent visitor. Was Madame correct to say Christine felt bewitched by him, even … entranced? _By her Angel_, he reminded himself bitterly, _the untouchable paragon of pretense you wrongfully instilled in her mind. Not the pitiful creature that exists and longs to share a life with her. And what are you really, what could you possibly offer her? A ghost of a scarred man living five levels beneath the earth, exiled into the darkness from which you created an imaginary existence devoid of all humanity…_

He snorted in disgust, staring at the blank page. Words of another nature entered his mind; an idea formerly toyed with now compelled him to write. Before he balked a second time, he picked up his quill and scratched out a missive to the solicitor of Monsieur Lefevre, recently retired manager of the opera house.

**xXx**

Backstage, the corridors hummed in a hive of activity; even the dancers' gold and black costumes reminded Christine of darting bumblebees. Other members of the chorus who would partake in the extravaganza wore silver, black or a mixture of the four hues, just as the guests would. The opera wouldn't play this night, the theater closed and the vestibule open to admit the crème de la crème to the Bal Masque for the bright and coming new year.

Everywhere, members of cast and crew rushed hither and yon, preparing for the spectacular event. The dancers took special care in their preparations: a mime applied white paste to his skin. A girl on the opposite side of another mirror carefully applied lip rouge. In a nearby corridor, a set of men and women flipped their gold-and-black lacy fans to and fro in unison to their steps as they practiced the choreographed dance they would perform for the distinguished visitors.

The ballet dormitories and communal dressings rooms were impossibly crowded, squealing ballerinas struggling into tight, lavish costumes, arranging hair into impossible styles, powdering bosoms with fluffy puffs and painting cheeks and eyes with bold face paint. Christine caught sight of Meg looking serenely beautiful in her sparkling white costume, and grabbed her hand, hurrying her out of the confined room. Meg barely missed getting her wings crushed by a corpulent man in Arabian costume who fretfully swore under his breath about being late to meet the diva as he lumbered past. Both girls raised their brows at each other, recognizing Senor Piangi, then burst into helpless giggles.

"Christine, aren't you going to change into your costume?" Meg regarded her friend's dark blue day dress in mild disapproval. "Tell me you _are _going to the ball?" Her tone held a hint of frustrated admonishment, and she took a deep breath, as if preparing for Christine to decline so she could demand her attendance.

Christine laughed and squeezed Meg's hand. "Yes, I'm going to the ball, and you look perfect by the way. Now you, my dearest friend, are going to help me." Christine couldn't keep the excitement out of her voice. "Come along, hurry! The room should be vacant by this time."

She gave Meg no chance to reply as, like eager schoolgirls on the advent of a much-awaited holiday, she darted down the corridor, pulling her friend along behind her.

They passed three stagehands sitting in a circle on the floor, throwing dice and taking swigs from green bottles in their own private revelry. Nearby, a beanstalk of a man tuned his violin. Christine keenly remembered observing former balls, her avid eyes having missed nothing. While cast members and the noblesse elegantly waltzed in the grand foyer, the crew and other workers gave in to their own boisterous jigs. She loved the refined pageantry, but a wild passion beat within her breast that desired the spirited nature of the uninhibited music as well. Perhaps such desires existed because her father had been a traveling musician, and Christine often danced to his fiddle and sang for the gathering crowds as a child.

"Hello, pretty Mademoiselles, would you like to share?" One of the men raised his bottle to them. By the florid wash of red on his face, it wasn't his first.

"And I have a lap you can share," an acrobatic called out, slapping his brawny thighs, to the boisterous laughter of his companions. "One leg for each of you to sit on."

"No, thank you," Meg replied stiffly. Christine ignored the men, knowing if Meg's stern mother were present, they would not dare behave so crudely. And if her Angel had been near, they wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Though he never admitted it, she knew Erik _must_ have instigated Monsieur Buquet's sudden taciturn and blessed distance. She had been chilled on more than one occasion to turn and find his lewd eyes roving over her.

Christine pulled Meg into the dressing room, locked the door, and began to disrobe as she hurried to the dressing screen.

"Won't the _great_ La Carlotta be upset if she finds you here?" Meg asked derisively.

"She's come and gone," Christine said through the screen, noticing the redheaded diva's pink clothes lying in scattered piles her maid must have hurried to remove before rushing to fulfill yet another order from her mistress. "We share the dressing room, though never at the same time." She almost added it had been a stipulation of Erik's to the managers, before remembering she was to keep silent regarding her continued lessons with him, though why, she didn't fully understand.

In a flurry, she pulled on her corset and fresh stockings, her hands shaking so in her eagerness, she fumbled twice before she brought one over her foot and up her leg attaching it to her garter. She managed the second with little problem. "I'll need help lacing this," she murmured, coming from behind the screen, her head down as she smoothed the ribbons at the low, ruffed bodice.

Meg gaped. "But, Christine - it's _red_!"

"Yes, isn't it lovely?"

"Bright scarlet red!"

"I found it on a rack in the costume area."

"But – I understood you were wearing a white gown!"

"I am," Christine sighed with disappointment. "I wanted to wear the scarlet dress I wore at the Yuletide celebration, but it was soiled from the wine a man accidentally spilled on it when he bumped into me. So I'm wearing the undergarments that went with it instead."

"But Christine … such a bold color will show through the filmy material of that dress. And red isn't in the color protocol for the Bal Masque!"

"I know." She grinned wickedly. "Now help me with this or I shall be even later than he plans to be."

"He? The Vicomte?" Meg sounded utterly confused as she dutifully tugged on the strong laces while Christine held tightly to a table.

"No," she gasped on a stifled breath as Meg yanked and pulled again, "My Angel - I mean Erik."

Shocked, Meg halted her torture with the satin-covered whalebone. "Your _teacher?_"

"Yes, isn't it wonderful?" Christine giggled, the sound quickly muffled into an "oof!" as Meg gave another harsh yank and twist.

"I thought you weren't having anything more to do with him, Christine. I thought he released you as his student."

Despite that she was only following Madame's orders to tell no one, Christine felt a pang of guilt that she'd never once confided in her dearest friend. "There's so much I wish to tell you, Meg, and I will. Someday. But yes, I did ask him, and yes, he is taking me to the ball!"

"_You_ asked _your teacher_ to accompany you?"

Meg finished with the corset, tying the laces into a strong, knotted bow, and Christine turned, suddenly uncertain, remembering Madame's own shock when she told her what she'd done. "Was that horridly bold of me? I- I suppose it was," she answered her own question. "But I knew he would never ask, so I did."

"Maman says a lady must wait for a gentleman to act." Meg's words came vague as she regarded Christine. "Though sometimes I fear if I do that, I'll be an old maid." She let out a little huff of disgust, and Christine wondered if her friend fancied one of the men. Before she could ask, Meg spoke, "What of the Vicomte?"

Christine gave an indifferent shrug of her shoulders. "I'm certain many young ladies will be in attendance, eager for an opportunity to catch his eye."

"But he wanted to take you!" Meg chided. "He has everything. Good looks, wealth, stature. Really, Christine, I don't understand why you would refuse him."

"Meg, don't scold. Please, be happy for me," she softly begged, grasping Meg above her elbows. "I don't wish for anything to ruin this grand night! Think of it – our first ball!"

Christine's eyes sparkled with stars, her face aglow, and Meg gave a grudging nod and smile. "Yes, and I am delighted that _one_ of us will have an escort, even if he has been something of a ghost." There was no reproach in her teasing words though concern still touched her eyes.

Christine gave a little shriek as she glimpsed the mantel clock. "Oh! The time!" Her fretful enthusiasm returning, she hurried back to the dressing screen. "I'll need help with the gown too. It fastens in the back." She donned matching petticoats and pulled her gown from a padded hanger.

Meg's eyebrows sailed high when she caught sight of the shimmering underskirt, but she said nothing as she fastened the endless row of tiny carved buttons, her fingers nimble and quick from much practice. At the looking glass Christine turned, pleased, and even Meg let out a soft murmur of approval. The bold red satin shimmered like the palest ruby through thin layers of silk tulle, giving it the cast of a pale rose and matching the high color in Christine's cheeks.

Meg fluffed the many flounces in her voluminous skirts as Christine turned this way and that, pirouetting in front of the mirror. A flush of heat warmed her face at the thought of him standing behind, watching … but no, he wasn't there. She would sense him. Somehow, she always did.

"It needs something more." Her eyes went to a ceramic vase nearby and she gasped in delight. "Of course!" Carefully, she withdrew the fragrant blossoms from their holder. "Help me twine these so I may wear them."

The girls worked frantically, giggling in comradeship, hurrying one another along, in a craze of ribbons, pins, and shears. Once finished, Meg helped Christine weave the buds into the ringlets of her hair she had carefully pinned back. After some time, she again stood before the mirror, surveying their handiwork.

"Oh, Christine …" Meg sighed. "You look beautiful."

Christine smiled in satisfaction. "It is perfect, isn't it? Exactly what I hoped for." Suddenly aware of how much time had elapsed, she turned to her friend. "Meg, you should go! The ball has already started."

"What of your escort?" Meg asked when she also noted the time. "You are certain he's coming, Christine?"

"Yes, of course, I'm supposed to meet him. Please go on, and thank you for your help. I'll see you there."

It took another few minutes of coaxing, but at last Meg left along with her firm promise to return if Christine didn't appear within the half hour.

Christine pulled on her long white gloves and moved about the room, in a nervous excitement of ill-contained energy. She didn't use paint except onstage, and wondered if she should make an exception for this one occasion. Deciding against it, there was so little time, she noticed as she glanced in the mirror that her lips were already red from biting them in her anxiety. And her cheeks blazed with rosy color.

Another few turns about the small room and she began to fear Meg was correct. Erik wasn't coming. Since she'd known him, he avoided crowds like a plague; why had she hoped he might make this one exception for her? Her emotions taut as strung wire, she couldn't curb a swift rush of tears and impatiently wiped them away with her fingertips.

_Stop it, Christine, you're being utterly ridiculous. He never said he wouldn't come, never told you he changed his mind. I don't think he would hurt me with his unexplained absence a second time, not when I told him how those weeks without him discouraged me so…_

_Would he?_

She cast yet another glance at the porcelain timepiece. Straight up 8 o'clock. He was always so adamant about her punctuality that she didn't presume he would ever be tardy.

Lightly wringing her hands in her skirts, she drifted away from the mirror and took a deep, steadying breath – which lodged in her throat, as the air around her seemed to stir. The sensation was not unlike the mood before an impending storm, charged with a vibrant silence that made her skin prickle with expectation; and she knew she was no longer alone.

He was there with her.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews! It's very encouraging to know my little fic is enjoyed, and I really appreciate you taking the time to reply. Red roses to all of you... tied in Erik's signature black silk ribbons, of course...**


	6. Let the Spectacle Astound You!

**Let the Spectacle Astound You!  
**

**Chapter VI **

.

She heard no sound of the mirror opening, heard no step on the stones. It failed to matter.

She sensed him near.

With her heart fluttering in nervous anticipation, Christine slowly turned ...

... and stood frozen in shock.

Resplendent in crimson red, he stood at the threshold to the dressing room, dangerously alluring, and so unlike any angel. His tunic and breeches hugged his tall, sinewy form and displayed it to an extent of superlative masculinity Christine had never before seen; he literally robbed her of breath. An ankle-length cape of matching red he wore indolently draped over one shoulder. His feet were shod in tall black boots and a sword hung in its sheath at his side. His mask, which covered him mid-cheek to forehead, bore the appearance of a skull, and his eyes ... his incredible eyes shimmered brilliant emerald amid the black he'd painted around them.

Her face flushed hot, and she remembered again to inhale.

The entire time she stared, Erik took her in from head to toe, from the delicate crimson roses Meg had entwined in her long, thick curls, to the pale ruby shimmer of her gown and the spray of similar roses adorning her waist. He appeared as stunned as she felt, which oddly calmed her enough to glide forward to greet him.

"I wore this for you." A shy note crept into her voice. "Do you like it?"

"You are ... exquisite," he said quietly. "As magnificent as a rose in bloom in a barren winter."

Her smile grew radiant. "And you are?" At his puzzled look, she clarified, "Your costume."

His full lips tilted at one corner in a manner that she had come to associate as endearingly rakish, and made her heart skip another breathless beat.

"I, dear lady, am the Red Death."

"Red Death?" Her brow puzzled in a frown. "As in Hades, King of the Underworld? Wearing red ... perhaps as a parallel to the fires of hell?"

He chuckled. "If it pleases you."

She remembered one evening, a year ago, as she rested after a vocal lesson and he entertained her with stories of the Greek gods. Entranced, she begged him to continue, and he honored her request long into the night. She should have realized then the oddity of an angel recounting pagan myths in a sacred chapel. Yet she'd been raised in a world where fantasy reigned extreme: first with her father and his nightly recounting of astounding tales he led her to believe true, from the time she'd been old enough to listen, to his last and her favorite of all stories - when for the final time he spoke of the Angel of Music he promised to send her. Once she arrived at the opera house to live, every facet of her existence was created around the fictional operas; even the relationship she most cherished was based on her beloved fable. Such a world of fascination had become her sole reality, involving tale after tale of make-believe.

She frowned suddenly. "But Hades had no roses in his Underworld, did he?"

"I would think they might be difficult to grow there," he agreed wryly.

"Yes … roses do need daylight to live, I suppose," she mused aloud. "He ascended from beneath the earth and abducted a young maiden while she was out collecting flowers. Roses perhaps?" She fingered the petals of the velvety corsage at her waist and furrowed her brow in thought, seeking a name. Her face cleared. "Persephone! She, the beautiful young maiden Hades took to his underground dwelling and there made his wife, because he loved her dearly, and he kept her with him to stay. But her father Zeus sent his warrior Hermes far below the earth to Hades' Underworld to demand he release her. Hades sadly let her go, but first gave her a pomegranate, and when she ate of its rosy fruit, it bound her heart to Hades and his Underworld forever. She was forced to stay above ground for two-thirds of each year, with her mother, but come winter, she always returned to Hades and became Queen of his Underworld."

His shoulders had tensed during her glorified recounting but he nodded. "You remember the story well."

"I have a great teacher."

An awkward moment elapsed, before he stepped away from the mirror. He slid it closed behind him and courteously offered his arm. "Shall we proceed, Fair Winter Rose?"

She eagerly linked her arm through his. "For the ball, as you are my escort, should I not be Persephone since you are dressed as Hades? To fit better as a match to our costumes," she added when his eyes glittered in surprise.

"No, Christine." His words seemed cautious, puzzling her. Tentatively he covered her hand that held his arm with his black glove and looked down at it as he did. "I think it best if you remain simply a Sweet Winter Rose in bloom."

She wasn't pleased with his answer. "Then you should be the Phoenix, if I'm to be the Rose."

"What?" His eyes quickly lifted to hers.

"Surely, you've heard the poem?" She was surprised when he continued to look at her vaguely, thinking of the many lines of poetry he'd cited to her on occasion over the years, much of it mysterious, even sinister, always intriguing. "I read it recently in a book of tales belonging to my father." At his grudging nod, she elaborated, "'In the Garden of Paradise, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, bloomed a rose bush. Here, in the first rose, a bird was born. His flight was like the flashing of light, his plumage was beauteous, and his song ravishing ... The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? The Bird of Paradise, the holy swan of song!'"

His eyes again glittered strangely, and she wished she could read his expression beyond the mask. "I am reminded of another tale, The Nightingale and the Rose. Though in that tale, from the nightingale a red rose was born."

"Oh, do tell it to me!" she urged, gazing up at him and soaking in his every word. She loved tales that bore romance and knew her Angel to be a masterful storyteller, like her father.

"Perhaps, instead, we should go to the ball? Since we are dressed for the occasion." His smile came faint and she sensed his sudden distance, though he didn't stir from her side.

"All right." She didn't allow her resolve to crumble. "Then I shall be your Rose, and you will be my Phoenix."

His eyes flared briefly with an emotion she'd glimpsed before, and made her feel warm inside now as it did then.

"We must match as a set," she insisted. "All couples do at these masked balls. Other guests may ask who we represent. I wish to give an answer if the occasion should arise. You hardly look like a nightingale, though your voice is as beautiful as the angel you pretended to be. And the Phoenix is quite impressive according to the rest of the poem. Magnificent and royal, his plumage fiery red."

Again he stared as though he'd never seen her before.

"Erik ...?"

"Very well." Clearly reluctant to submit to their game of make-believe, his breath came out soft and disturbed. "Since I wear no bird's beak but a skull of death, and wish it to remain so, for these few hours, until the ball's end, I will be the Lord of Death and you may play the role of the maiden Persephone. Does that please you, Christine?"

"Oh, yes!" she exclaimed. "Very much so."

He smiled in tolerant amusement. "It takes so little to please you. You bubble over like effervescent champagne at the least kindness extended toward you."

"If I'm happy, it's because you came."

"I told you I would."

"I worried that you might have changed your mind."

"I almost did."

A thread of previous anxiety coiled around her pleasure at his unexpected admission. She glanced away a moment, deciding she didn't wish to know his reason. Not tonight. She wanted nothing to ruin this evening at her first ball with her angel ... who was no angel ... but most definitely mortal. Unable to prevent herself, her eyes bashfully swept up his powerful form again, to his face.

"Never mind." She smiled, covering her nervousness. "What's important is that you're here with me now."

Her heart lightened at the soft glow that suddenly lit his beautiful eyes. Moving her hands to link around his arm, the excitement of the night again burned brightly inside as she turned and glided a few steps in retreat, this time leading him as he often led her.

"Come, my King Hades. Come with me and let me show you the magnificent realm that lies above your dark Underworld. I cannot wait to introduce you to the spectacular lights and sounds. It will be quite the masquerade!"

**xXx**

The strains of music intensified the closer they drew to the grand foyer used for the ballroom and Erik tensed, ill at ease. To stand in the shadows, detached, and observe these same guests, and, when the situation warranted, address them in his deep, resonant voice had been his sole participation in events of this nature.

Tonight would be different; tonight he would be one of them_ ... _

How could he **_ever_** be one of them, with his excuse for a face?

Christine's hand tightened on his sleeve and he directed his full attention her way, again momentarily stunned by her beauty. She truly was a vision to behold.

"No one knows you're the Phantom, save for Madame and Meg. And the managers, of course. I told no one in the chorus or elsewhere that my teacher is the great Phantom of the Opera they have all feared. So unless you wish anyone to know, your secret shall remain a mystery."

Her quiet words, the steady look in her warm brown eyes, gave him a measure of reassurance. She was correct in that regard; he wanted no one to realize who he was – either his true identity or his contrived one. An irony, since before the spirits' visitation his original plan had been to descend this same staircase, alone, and with a twisted agenda in mind. He designed his Red Death costume to stand out among the monotonous tones of the other attendees, so as to be remembered and feared. He still wished for the latter, even toyed with the idea of introducing himself as the Opera Ghost to a select few. But only to those whom he wished to know it. In the end, anonymity did merit its own rewards.

"Very well," he said with the closest he could come to a smile at the moment. "Lead on, Fair Winter Rose."

"Persephone," she staunchly reminded.

He needed no such reminder of her desire to be called by a name that once would have delighted his heart but now gave him strong unease. When first he told her the story of Hades and his Queen, he had every intention of fulfilling the mythological tale and making Christine his bride of his underworld. But all plans were now destined to change. They _must_ change! How often he had reminded himself of that perturbing detail.

"Oh, look! There's Meg. I know she'll want to meet you." Excited, she tugged slightly on his arm as they moved to the entrance of the steps angling downward to the second level dais.

He looked two levels below, past clusters of monochromatic dancing couples, to where Meg stood, alone, near a stone column. "You mentioned that she knows the truth about me," he said pensively. He didn't know why he bothered to inquire; he had heard from Christine's own lips her confession to Meg, when he'd moved through the shadows of the present world with that spirit, who'd also been Meg's double.

"Yes, she does. But she wouldn't tell a soul." Christine's eyes beseeched him. "I really would like for you to meet her."

"As you wish."

His polite response and smile came stiff, but she seemed not to notice as she again surveyed the crowded ballroom. He knew of Meg, of course, had observed her with Christine from a distance and always understood his young protégé felt a kindred spirit with the fair-haired daughter of Madame Giry. For that reason alone, he would make an attempt to exert his best persona in this fleeting role of sociable guest, whatever exertion of courtesy that entailed. He found himself half wishing the night were over and done with.

The slight tensing of Christine's fingertips against his arm belied her assumed calm and he, too, realized they'd been spotted. By guests other than Mademoiselle Giry.

At the top of the stairs, costumed attendees in silver and gold quickly parted in glittering waves to the left and right, clearing the wide staircase the moment they captured sight of The Red Death and his exquisite companion.

Behind their sequined and feathered masks, hordes of women eyed Christine's soft shimmering gown of pale ruby with disapproval, their choice of costumes pitifully deficient as far as the Phantom was concerned, before they fastened their eyes with curious interest to his own bold attire. The dim-witted gentlemen in attendance gaped in an appalled stupor of uncertainty while high above, the musicians missed a note, their instruments wavering on an unsteady drone that almost led to dead silence as the dancers whirled to a stop and looked up in confusion.

Monsieur Reyer tapped his baton on the podium in stern command and the music again pulsated to vivid life, mid stanza. As if the blast of notes gave a decree to all within the foyer, the dancers resumed their _waltze à trois temps, _albeit tensely, and those on the sidelines once more continued in a ritual of quiet gossip, as their eyes strayed to the couple who had yet to descend the staircase.

"Are you certain you wish to proceed?" the Phantom asked in sardonic amusement.

"Of course."

Christine lifted her chin bravely as they moved into the ballroom. She politely smiled and nodded to a few pompous guests who stood at the edge of the stairs and continued to stare with utter disregard for her feelings. Only by the increased pressure on his arm did the Phantom discern her nervousness. They strode down the center staircase with similar response, past a row of dancing couples and alongside the fringes of the ballroom floor, those standing in their path giving them a wide berth.

"Meg," she said in some relief once they reached the youngest Giry dressed from head to toe in pristine white covered in feathers of the same. "I would like to introduce you to my escort. This is Monsieur Erik," her voice fairly bubbled. "My great teacher."

Meg clearly did not share Christine's enthusiasm. She regarded him with the barest of nods, her eyes warily uncertain through the holes of the bright mask she held on a stick. "Monsieur." Her gaze fixed on his death mask with intent, as if trying to see what horrors lay beyond. Her avid interest irritated him, taking him back to when he was put on exhibit in an animal's cage, to be ridiculed and gawked at, and he reminded himself with some difficulty of his decision to be polite.

"Mademoiselle." He inclined his head and shoulders in a stiff bow. His attention went to the gauze wings that stuck out at the back of her outfit and he attempted the tedious act of exchanging inane pleasantries. "Your costume is that of a swan I presume?"

"No, monsieur, I am an ang—" She curbed her instant response mid-syllable, her eyes going wide in realization, her mouth slightly puckered like a fish.

"An angel," he finished for her dryly.

"Oui," she whispered and shot a nervous glance toward Christine.

"A most judicious choice." He kept his tone pleasant, though his expression was grim. "Better an angel than a demon. Or a phantom." He quirked his chin a fraction higher. "Although beneath the mask who knows what one may find?"

She inhaled a swift breath. "And are you a phantom tonight, monsieur?"

"Do you not recognize a devil when you see one, mademoiselle?"

The mask in her hand trembled.

"My teacher is Hades, King of the Underworld, and I am Persephone, His Queen," Christine hurried to say, her fingers tightening around his arm in gentle warning.

Her explanation only served to make Meg's eyes open further, large and shocked, beyond the sequined mask. She was saved any form of reply as a scrawny young man Erik recognized as one of the chorus, from the red thatch of hair poking out from behind his clown mask, approached and asked Meg to dance. She complied most hurriedly without an additional word for either of them.

With regard to those in attendance, the Phantom didn't care who he offended, though he'd never held aught against little Giry. There were many among the cast and crew whose presence annoyed him far greater. What gave him a pang of regret was the troubled expression now crossing Christine's face as she watched Meg float away to the dance floor on the arm of the male clown.

"That didn't go well, did it?" The question was rhetorical; he needed no answer. "I fear when it comes to social decorum for such gatherings I am sorely lacking."

She turned her startled attention his way. "I'm not upset with you. I know you're not accustomed to attending balls or being in the company of others. I'm thankful that you agreed to come at all. It's Meg." She shook her head in disbelief as she studied her friend. "She isn't usually so abrupt or ..." She let her sentence trail away, giving a little shrug as she gave him a sidelong glance. "Impolite."

"I gave her just cause. The Phantom has attained quite a reputation in this opera house. Not all are as forgiving as you are, my dear."

Her features relaxed. "I suppose; though Meg really is kind. Perhaps, in time, she'll come around once she realizes all the troubles here have ended." A smile brightened her face as the musicians moved into the next number. "Oh, I adore this piece! I should love to dance." She turned fully toward him, her features freezing with concern when she realized what she'd said. "That is, I've danced to this tune before. With Meg. When we were children watching the galas. I don't really care to dance." Her cheeks flushed pink.

He tilted his head forward and seriously regarded her. "Is that the truth, Christine? You came to the ball with no intention to dance? Your _first_ ball, as you have so often stated?"

She blinked, moistening her lower lip self-consciously. "I-I gave no consideration to my words before I spoke them, Maestro. A horrid habit, though of course you know my faults. I am quite content to stand here and watch the others."

He lifted his brow. "Are you? Only to watch when you dance so divinely?" At her clear desire not to injure his feelings, he felt moved and gently took her hand into his gloved one. "I think not." Laying her hand on his bent arm, covering her fingers with his glove, he moved with her to the dance floor. With a deft motion, he whipped his long train over his arm, thus capturing his sword against the material so its sheath did not stick out.

Before she could question, his hand went to her waist, his other finding and clasping hers and he twirled them around in a graceful arc, his actions fluid and without pause. She gasped in shocked delight. They made several smooth turns before he smiled at her.

"I believe this is how it's done?"

She clutched his shoulder, her eyes shining up at him in amazement. "But ... however did you learn?"

"I watched," he said in some amusement. "I have attended every ball, hidden in the shadows, since I was a boy. As that foolish boy, I would mimic the dancers' steps in my lair once the festivities ended. I have a great capacity for learning things quickly."

"I don't think you were foolish," she replied, uncertain if he could hear her whisper above the music, but overcome by the sensations dancing with Erik aroused. The electrifying feel of his firm touch at her waist brought every nerve ending into startling awareness. His leather glove was cool against her hand, but Christine felt flushed with warmth, her head swimming with it. His steps were lithe, elegant. The inborn finesse with which he made every move into an art form was magnified in his dance as he spun her around the fringes of the ballroom floor. Breathless, she followed his lead without trying, one with him, lost in his mastery...

Floating ...

Falling ...

Soaring ...

His large hand slid to the small of her back, bringing her nearer. His eyes, intense, hypnotic, never drifted from hers. The heat of his body, so close … not close enough ... too close ... warmed her. Thrilled her. Frightened her.

Unfamiliar with such deep-seated urges still so new to her inexperienced mind and how to respond to them, longing both to surrender and feeling she should retreat, she wished the music would play on forever at the same time she hoped it might draw to a close.

The music did suddenly stop, as did Erik after whirling them around one last time with perfect elegance. He held her frozen for the span of several erratic beats of her heart as they stared into one another's eyes. All else ceased to exist or matter. Her lips parted softly, expectantly, and she felt her body melt toward him as though he held some strange power over her, encouraging her to abandon all defenses ... as he had sung to her what seemed ages ago ...

"Erik?" His name on her lips came as no more than a breath, drowned in the intro to the next song. Even had there been silence, she doubted she could utter a sound.

Instantly he released his hold on her, almost upsetting her balance with the manner in which she had leaned in toward him. He retreated a step, giving her a slight bow.

"Mademoiselle Daae, it has been a pleasure."

"Oui." She struggled over her spiraling emotions to find appropriate words, barely managing the smallest curtsy. "Indeed, Monsieur. A _true_ pleasure."

She stared up into his eyes that gleamed like twin gemstones in the brilliant candlelight. Any prior hesitation to be so close to him fled.

A line of dancers with costume fans swiftly hurried past them to take the center stairs. The floor cleared, as those who'd been dancing watched the scheduled performers go into their rehearsed number and sing of a masquerade.

Erik never drifted from her side but again seemed to have distanced himself. At least he was with her, Christine reasoned. She had _danced_ with him, something she never would have dreamed possible. Her first formal dance with a gentleman, and it had been with her Angel. When she invited him to the ball, she had resigned herself to sacrifice dancing if only he would be her escort. Yet, as he'd so often done, he surprised her once again with a skill she'd not known he possessed.

She smiled softly at the thought as she watched the gay distraction on the stairwell, even laughing when a talented mime again took center stage to entertain with his agile wit. But what she really wished for was the performance to end, the musicians to play another waltz, and Erik again to take her in his arms.

.

**xXx**

**A/N: Thank you so much for all the reviews! You guys are awesome! :) After reading your responses- (loved them!)- I decided to give you guys a conflict-free chapter this time. Aren't I nice? (Better take it while I'm feeling charitable! – muahahaha - *insert evil grin here* - I'm not exactly known for being nice to my characters, though I do believe in happy endings, always.) Anyway – last week we were without electricity for 48 hours due to a storm, and I'm still catching up on things. Sorry for the delay with this last chapter.**

**LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath****- I can't take credit for the idea. According to the costume designer for the movie, that's what she wore - a red underskirt, etc, with a white overdress.**

**Again, thanks to all of you- please keep the comments coming. :)**

**credits- **

*** The Phoenix Bird by Hans Christian Andersen (1850) **

***The Nightingale and the Rose by Oscar Wilde – taken from the collection "The Happy Prince and Other Stories" (1888) (And yeah, I know this was written after the timing of my story, but I love the tale since I read Kay's book and used a bit of artistic license here.)**


	7. Seal My Fate Tonight

**Seal My Fate Tonight**

**Chapter VII**

.

The tolerable performance of the masqueraders soon concluded.

The Phantom looked from the dancers to Christine, the corners of his mouth tilting in a smile. Not one laced with sarcasm or riddled with irony, but a genuine expression of delight to hear her laugh.

To hold her in his arms and waltz with her had been a taste of heaven but had tested him to the limits of endurance. His sole desire, to whisk her from the ballroom into the shadows and away from all eyes, had risen fiercely inside him, surprising in its intensity. He initially asked her to dance, not wishing to disappoint when he understood how she longed to partake in the festivities.

But he dared not ask a second time.

His resolve had not altered; he would not bind her in chains to him when she clearly did not wish it, the shadows of the distressing present and future too heartrending to recall. Should he again dance with her, he could not be held accountable for his actions. For as Hades did with Persephone, so he might again be tempted to do with Christine, whose sparkling, hopeful eyes conveyed the message of just how much she wished to dance again as the music resumed and couples took the floor.

It was with mixed feelings of respite and regret that the Phantom noticed the managers approach.

"Miss Daae," Firmin greeted in stiff arrogance, "how … charming you look tonight."

"Monsieur Firmin." She inclined her head in polite response at his aloof compliment.

"Is this not a grand success?" Andre bared his teeth in parody of a chimpanzee's smile, as with a sweep of one arm he took in the dancers then turned his attention to Erik, as did Firmin. Andre drank from his champagne glass.

"I don't believe we've had the pleasure?" Firmin greeted with utter disdain as he took in the Red Death costume and sniffed.

"Au contraire, Gentlemen. I believe you will find we have. Though you might not have considered it a ... _pleasure_."

At recognition of the Phantom's deep voice champagne spewed from Andre's mouth, the stream barely finding its way back inside his crystal flute as he went into a sudden coughing fit. Firmin's eyes bulged in shocked horror.

"Did you miss me, good messieurs?" Erik dryly smiled. "How fortunate that our paths should so soon cross a second time," he went on, his tone mockingly pleasant, laced with an undercurrent of steel. He sensed Christine step closer. "It has come to my knowledge that you, _managers_, have seen fit to strip my talented ingénue of her desired place in the chorus."

"B-but surely the ballet would conflict with her singing—" Firmin began, the first to recover.

"It was not in our arrangement," Erik interrupted smoothly, his tone brooking no dispute. Christine gently slipped her hands around his arm, bringing herself against him. The intimate act, whether issuing a warning or seeking security, momentarily set him off balance, before he continued in the same vein. "Taking away from Miss Daae the aria of Act III was also not in our arrangement."

"B-b-but, that is, w-w-we only thought—"Andre blinked rapidly, looking from Christine to the Phantom.

"I also do not appreciate the condescension you and others have shown toward our new star. That, too, will cease, as of this night. If you cannot keep your cast in line, then I suggest you employ methods to do so, since you call yourself managers."

Madame Giry suddenly walked into view.

"Gentlemen." She abruptly nodded to the two distraught men then looked the Phantom's way. "_Maestro._ I am pleased you could take time from working on your compositions to join us at the gala." Her eyes spoke volumes of what she did not say. "Christine." She nodded to her in acknowledgement, her brow quirking as she noticed the manner in which Christine clung to him. She suddenly also took note of Christine's rebellious costume, then his, and again met his steady gaze.

_She would do anything for you,_ her eyes seemed to accuse. _You have enchanted her with your ruse. Bewitched her . . ._

Galled that she would again challenge him, even silently, he narrowed his eyes.

Quickly, she averted hers. "Come, Christine. I believe these gentlemen have matters of business to discuss."

"Oh – but I would rather not leave ... that is …" She faltered, looking to Erik for help as Madame firmly tugged her arm and she released his sleeve.

Realizing perhaps she shouldn't hear what more he had to say to the two inept fools who massacred the opera with their bungling decisions, he relaxed his tight jaw and gave her a slight nod. "Perhaps you should go. It is alright. I will find you."

Her smile was uncertain. Clearly she did not wish to leave, and Erik almost rescinded his words before Madame Giry pulled her away. As he watched, Meg joined the two women.

Wishing to address and dispense with the troublesome matter at hand swiftly, over the next few minutes he expressed his displeasure at being crossed, at their poor treatment of Christine, and warned both managers that he would not be made a fool of again, nor would his pupil, promising swift retribution if they should impede in any manner or damage her career.

"You would not wish another visit from the Opera Ghost, would you, gentlemen?" he ended his quiet but curt admonishment. "This time a note may not precede his return."

Firmin paled, pulling a blue kerchief from his pocket and dabbing the beads of perspiration from his forehead. Andre opened and closed his mouth repeatedly, as if his mind had lost the capacity to function with his tongue. "I assure you, w-we've always only had Miss Daae's best interests in mind," he finally spluttered, "but as you are her m-m-m-manager, we will of course discuss with you any future changes."

"See that you do. And, concerning Miss Daae, make no more decisions without my counsel."

The Phantom doubted their claim regarding their best interests for Christine and listened with scant patience as Firmin explained their prior reasoning. Erik remained unyielding in the matter.

"She wishes to dance, so she shall dance. Her desire to practice with the chorus will not affect her lessons with me. However," he paused, and both men leaned forward, hanging on his next word. "As she **_is_** to star in my opera—of which I expect preparations to be underway soon ...?" Both Andre and Firmin swiftly nodded their assurance. "I don't wish to exhaust her unnecessarily; therefore I will concede to her continued absence from the solo in Act III."

With three weeks remaining for Il Muto, her exclusion was a small sacrifice to make. Though on the part of the audience, it was a considerable misery since they would be forced to listen to La Carlotta's caterwauling in place of his Angel's crystalline voice.

Emboldened and clearly shocked by his concurrence, the managers then spoke of his opera, assuring him that though they were at first hesitant of its reception by the populace, due to its "unique nature," they'd reconsidered and would produce it. Erik wondered what about arabesque clowns was so unique that might give them pause, but two junk men had no business running an opera in the first place, and he didn't wish to spar at great length over their deficient opinions while Christine waited for him to rejoin her.

"Such matters we shall discuss at a later date. I will give Madame Giry the details of the time and place of our next meeting."

"But—"

"I have no wish to go over the fine points of the opera at this time. Other matters await my attention. Gentlemen," he said in dismissal, ignoring their telling glances toward one another at the mention of his plans.

He left them to their foul little minds, weary of their company. As he scanned the ballroom for Christine, he noticed La Carlotta standing against a wall near one of the wide entrances, alone. She looked in another direction with a superior expression as she watched those she considered inferior to her.

The Phantom smiled, wanting to play after his tiresome talk with the blundering managers and couldn't resist a little mischief. No tricks, as he'd promised Christine, no accidents. Just … a brief and heartfelt greeting for such a grand occasion.

Quietly drawing his sword, he pretended interest in its thin blade, holding the tip in his gloved hand.

"Madame," he said, slowing as he walked past the soon-to-be-retired diva, "A word of counsel to start the new year well: It would prove wise to keep your mouth closed while on stage the few weeks you have remaining." He glanced up. With satisfaction he noted her painted eyes widen in shocked horror while her hand gripped her throat in sudden recognition of his voice. "I fear that is the sole way to correct the travesty you erroneously pass off as a song," he explained, his tone acerbically polite.

He barely resisted the urge to ruffle the ridiculous feathers that loomed atop her gargantuan hat with the tip of his sword in parting. Her round eyes dropped to the weapon he casually held then flew back to his glittering eyes beyond the mask.

"Bonsoir." He smiled wickedly and continued his course, melting into the shadows of the dim corridor.

His brief enjoyment in his little ploy at merrymaking soon dissipated as he searched the rest of the ballroom and connecting corridors for Christine's angelic face, and realized with mounting concern she was nowhere to be found.

**xXx**

"Where are you taking me?" Winded, Christine hurried to keep up with their patron as he pulled her up yet another flight of winding stairs. "To the roof?" she asked in mounting realization. "What on earth ... could you possibly have to show me … up there?"

"We must hurry." Not reducing his swift pace, Raoul looked over his shoulder with a smile. "Trust me, Little Lotte. I think you'll be pleased."

Pleased? Christine already wished she hadn't agreed to his bewildering request. Everything had happened so fast, too fast, and she'd had no time to think through her actions.

In the ballroom, Meg had joined them as Madame shared with Christine her concerns that she not do anything foolish with regard to her tutor. Before Christine could ask what she meant, one of the performers approached, urgently needing to speak to Madame, and she made her apologies and left with the man. Meg then took the opportunity to draw Christine aside, also sharing her reservations about her association with Erik, irritating Christine, who was still angry by Meg's cold reception of him – when Raoul suddenly appeared at her side. The three exchanged brief greetings, before Meg abruptly came up with a flimsy excuse to seek refreshment, leaving Christine and Raoul alone. With the managers' warnings buzzing inside her mind, she had been nervous and hardly conversant. Raoul, clearly puzzled, asked her to leave the ballroom with him for a few minutes, telling her he had something of importance he wished to share.

He'd been so polite, his expression hopeful, reminding her of the boy she once knew. She had looked across the ballroom at Erik, seeing he was still in deep discussion with the managers, before agreeing to give Raoul those few minutes so he could talk, (or so she thought), in a room less noisy. She reasoned he couldn't be held accountable for the managers' wicked minds; he had no idea of the depraved alliance they'd all but insisted she share with him. Had Raoul known, she had a feeling he would be as outraged as Erik, **_if_** she'd told him. Her agreement to join Raoul had no more than left her lips and Raoul was pulling her out of the ballroom, urging her that they must hurry.

Now, as they took the last flight of stairs, she recalled recent conversations with her teacher and felt he wouldn't approve of this either. Though he brusquely told her she could see whom she pleased, that her life was her own and he would no longer interfere, she had seen him scowl at mention of the Vicomte's name, and hoped he would never find out about her leaving with him for this brief interlude. At least, she hoped it would be brief.

Raoul opened the door to the roof with a flourish, letting her precede him. She stepped outside, pressing her hand to her bosom as she inhaled great gasps of the icy-cold air.

"What ..." she gasped, panting for breath and turning to face him. "_What _could you possibly have to say to me up here ... that you couldn't say down there?"

He walked over the snow toward her, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. "It's what I want to _show_ you." He smiled and turned her around, back to his chest, keeping his hands on her bare arms; she felt grateful for their warmth. Her dress provided little protection to her upper body from the wintry night and she pulled up the shoulders of it a little higher in a vain effort to further cover herself.

"What, Raoul? I see nothing out of the ordinary."

"Watch the sky," he said low, near her ear, and in that instant a huge bright red sun exploded high above, shattering through the darkness; then another starburst of gold and a smaller burst of bronze followed, lighting the dark heavens.

"Ohhh," she gasped in stunned delight.

"My parents ordered the fireworks for the gala. A perfect addition to the extravaganza, to celebrate the beginning of the New Year, don't you agree? What I hope will be a most promising one. They'll be going on and off all night."

"They're beautiful," she murmured in appreciation.

"You're beautiful."

The sudden warm change in his tone alarmed her and she stepped away from him, lowering her gaze from the skies to the ground.

"Raoul, don't."

She felt him come up behind her. "Why not?" Slowly he turned her around. "I should very much like to renew our acquaintance, Christine."

"Raoul, no, please don't. I cherished the friendship we shared as children. But now I feel you want something more than I can give." Her eyes pleaded with him to understand. "I tried to tell you the reason I couldn't go with you to dinner on the night of my debut, but you walked out before I could fully explain."

"You said your Angel of Music was very strict, and I assured you that I wouldn't keep you out late. But when I returned, the door was locked and I heard voices."

"I was with my teacher."

"I see." His eyes grew a bit distant and he lowered his hands from her shoulders.

"Do you? I hope so. Things have changed, Raoul. **_I _**have changed. I'm a woman now, not a girl of six." She quirked her head and shoulders in a sympathetic little gesture. "I loved our summer by the sea, but summer is over and has been for a long time. It's a new season now." As she spoke, a faint snow began to sprinkle from the skies and float down to dust their heads. "I'm not Little Lotte anymore, though my love for music has never changed. Perhaps my desire for it is the only thing about me that has remained constant."

"You're telling me I don't have a chance." His eyes were sad, making her feel unkind but she reasoned it best to speak now before his feelings could mature.

"I'm sorry, Raoul. No."

"There's someone else?"

She thought of her Angel and her face warmed.

"Never mind," he said quietly. "I see the answer written in your eyes. It's your teacher, isn't it? That's why you refused my invitation to escort you to the ball. To go with him."

"I cannot help the way I feel. I never wanted to hurt you. Please, tell me I haven't."

The fireworks exhibition ended. The darkness of evening returned, the dusky light of the skies and snow on the rooftop providing a soft, quiet glow in the moonless night.

"No, Christine." He gave her a resigned smile. "I shall survive this." He took hold of her gloved hands and brought them up between them. "And I shall always treasure those days by the sea, when we played our games of pirate hunts and make believe."

"That seems to be the composition of my entire life. Games of make believe." She sighed in discontent, thinking of her Angel and their own unending game. Diverse characters, but the same rules, again. And again. And again …

Raoul's hand went to her chin, tilting her head back as he studied her eyes. "You seem so unhappy. I hate to see you like this. Are you certain there's no chance for us? I could make you happy ..."

"No, Raoul." She kept her voice very soft, as he did.

He nodded, at last reconciled to her decision. "Then may I kiss you one last time, in remembrance of those days by the sea? A last goodbye, if you will. You may not know this but those three months helped me through a difficult point in my childhood. _You_ helped me, Little Lotte. Your enthusiasm for life cheered me and gave me hope again. I'll not forget that."

His request startled her, and she thought back to the sweet kiss he'd once given her on the cheek and holding hands, the sum total of their expressions toward one another as childhood sweethearts. If she could call it that.

"I suppose it would be all right."

To her surprise, he lowered his cool lips to hers, keeping them lightly resting there for what seemed longer than propriety allowed or what friendship suggested. When he began to press in a little harder, she pulled back, ill at ease.

"Raoul ..."

"My apologies." He shrugged, his expression sheepish, reminding her of the boy he'd been, and she couldn't help but smile, easily forgiving him.

"It's alright, but we really must return. They'll wonder where I am."

"Of course. After you, dear Lotte," he said while opening the door for her with a slight bow.

She laughed and looked over her shoulder at him, rolling her eyes heavenward. "Must you call me that infantile nickname?"

"It's how I will always think of you."

She gave him a resigned smile, idly wondering if he would always live in a past without change, while she hurried forward to her future and the dreams she planned to make happen.

**xXx**

Once the young lovers vanished into the building, the Phantom slowly emerged from beyond the statue of a winged horse. He stood and stared in stinging disbelief at the dual sets of footprints close together in the snow. A rosebud from her costume had fallen free. He walked over to it and knelt to gently lift the bruised blossom into his glove, then raised his despondent eyes to the closed door.

_"How could you __…?_" he whispered.

He had searched for her in vain, at last overhearing two ballet rats gossip of her disappearance with the Vicomte to the roof. Knowing every shortcut and secret passage in the opera house, having devised some of them himself, the Phantom arrived through one of the circular windows that rimmed the rooftop and dropped almost noiselessly into the shadows, behind a tall statue. They had been so attentive to the fireworks and each other they took no notice of his presence.

He had remained silent in his distress, unable to believe that despite his sacrificial attempts to change the miserable order of events the future shadows had shown him, they were nonetheless coming horribly true in a twisted irony of this present life. Numb, his heart frozen, for surely the heavy lump in his chest had turned to ice, he had watched, hoping she would push the wretched boy away, hoping she would refuse his advances, hoping she would run back into the building. But she had done none of those things.

_"Oh, Christine,"_ he whispered, raising the petals of the broken rose to ghost against his lips as he recalled with misery what came afterward.

The fireworks presentation had drowned out their hushed words, which grew even more muted after the explosions of light and sound ended. He strained to hear what they said, but they stood too far away … but not far enough for him to avoid becoming the tortured witness to their shocking kiss that lingered. Their kiss: that drove the stake of despair plummeting through his heart; for surely the block of ice within his chest had shattered, thrusting jagged fragments into every part of him.

Nothing had changed with regard to his feelings toward her, **_nothing_**; and he knew now they never would, pathetic creature that he'd become.

No matter that he told Christine she could see whom she wanted; no matter that he resolved to give her back her life and sever all bonds, so the future he'd seen could never transpire – still her betrayal cut so deep, he wanted to die.

Once they left together, laughing and smiling, the Phantom began to weep.

"**_DAMN HIM!_**" he roared to the now silent skies and moved swiftly to the looming statue at the corner of the roof. With fisted gloves he pushed the snow off the ledge, leaning into the low balustrade. "**_DAMN YOU BOTH!_**"

He could well imagine the dark pleasure of the Punjab wrapped around the boy's pale throat. Could imagine his perfect face mottled red, his body gasping for its one last vile breath. Could imagine the horror in her pleading eyes … her haunting, beseeching eyes …

The shadows accusing him, he wanted to fall.

With his weight balanced on his fists, he desolately stared at the snow-covered street far below, absent of revelers. How easy it would be to give up, to surrender this miserable existence, to lean a little farther over and be done with it, the wretched opera of his life at last at an end. Months ago, even weeks, he would have plotted out an elaborate revenge to teach them both, to capture Christine and force her to become his bride if she should balk, as he'd planned to do in the Don Juan opera. But though she wounded him beyond what he could bear, he would not retaliate. Would never do anything to cause her pain and suffering. Her grief. Her DEATH. As he'd caused her death in the shadows of the desolate future.

For him, any outcome of a future was meant to be bleak.

He would always be alone.

Without Christine, his Angel … who had murdered his fledgling hope with one betraying kiss.

"**DAMN THE FUTURE AND DAMN YOU SPIRITS FOR SHOWING IT TO ME!**" he raged at the silent skies.

"**_Curse you!_**" His voice trembled and cracked.

"_Damn you,_" he whispered, a tear splashing to disappear forever in the snow, as frozen as the painful chill that swept throughout his shattered heart.

Broken, he fell hard to his knees against one of the hooded angels and bowed his head against the cold, unfeeling stone.

**xXx **

Impatient to reunite with her escort, hoping he was still in conversation with the managers and wouldn't have missed her absence, Christine hurried back to the main level with Raoul. She told him her teacher might get the wrong impression should they be seen together, and to please her, he agreed to remain in the corridor to talk with one of the guests, who'd hailed him, inquiring after his father.

"I would never do anything to cause you distress, Little Lotte," he whispered in parting. "If at any time you should need me, you have only to ask."

She nodded with a smile of gratitude, relieved he wasn't the depraved cad she'd begun to fear he might be, owing to the managers' crass remarks. It pleased her to know that her admirable childhood friend still resided within the important nobleman.

Sweeping through the same entrance she earlier exited, she scanned the ballroom. Her escort should be easy to find, dressed completely in red …

… but he wasn't.

She walked along the fringe of dancing couples, ignoring the whispered remarks and overt glances to her rebellious gown from the women who stood against the wall. After searching the entire ballroom, she tried the corridor that ran along its edges, again without success.

"Meg!" she called in relief at seeing her friend near one of the entrances.

Meg's eyes sparkled with secret amusement. "Did you have a nice time with the Vicomte, Christine?"

"What?" Taken aback, she blinked.

Meg laughed. "Don't look so shocked. Surely you know nothing escapes the eyes of the chorus. Two of the girls saw you run up to the roof with him. The whole ballroom must know of your secret rendezvous by now."

Panicked, Christine pressed a shaky hand to her stomach. "My teacher … have you seen him?"

"He left shortly after you did. I understand he gave La Carlotta quite a scare."

He _left_? That didn't sound like Erik; he wouldn't leave her alone at the ball, not when he told her he would find her.

He would _find her!_

She inhaled sharply as a thick pall of dread made it difficult to breathe.

Paying no further attention to Meg, she retraced her steps to the roof.

"Christine!" Meg cried after her. "Where are you going?"

Holding up the hem of her gown with one hand and using the other to pull herself up along the rail, she hurried as fast as was feasible in the tight lacings that bit into her with every rapid burst of air. At the top, she threw open the door.

"Erik!" she called, seeing no one. "Are you here?"

The roof appeared empty. Nor did she sense his presence, but still she searched.

The fireworks had begun anew. In their light she looked beyond a corner statue, startled to see fresh footprints and also prints in the snow beneath a round window; the snow was absent from its rim as if it had been recently pushed open.

Her blood ran icy in her veins with grave understanding, as frigid as the winter night. "No," she whispered, hoping she misread the signs. But who else would use unattainable windows and dark, hidden passageways in the rafters?

_Who else?_

The large footprints – a man's footprints – led to a statue of angels perched at the opposite corner of the building, where she and Raoul did not walk. On the ground at the base of the monument she spotted something dark. Moving toward it, she found one of her roses …

Crushed.

"Oh, Mon Ange …" She reeled from the shock, putting her hand to the statue to steady herself.

He had been there. There was no longer any doubt in her mind. But … did he come after she and Raoul visited the roof, as she hoped, perhaps catching only a glimpse of them leaving, or ...

Her eyes widened in horror.

"_My God, no!"_ Her whisper came hoarse, tragic. Grabbing her skirts she raced back to the stairs.

She should have known he would come after her. He'd always been near, always watching over her.

**_She should have known _**he would have kept the discussion with the managers brief and return to her side as soon as possible.

Oh, why? Why had she done it? Why had she allowed it?

**_WHY?_**

Because she was a fool – that's why. A childish, ignorant, weak fool …

Silently chastising herself, she took the three flights downstairs at a frantic pace, praying she wouldn't fall, praying she would find Madame, but most of all praying that she would see Erik.

Providence answered all requests but one.

"Madame Giry!" she called out, catching sight of her black gown rimmed in gold and braided hair. She hurried toward her ballet instructor, barely stopping to pause or collect a breath. "_Please!_ You must take me to him – I must see him now. Tonight."

"Calm yourself, child! Mon Dieu, what is the matter?" The woman put her hands to Christine's shoulders and looked steadily into her eyes.

"It's Erik, I – I think he thinks I ..." Christine inhaled a deep breath, trying to make sense. "There was – we had a misunderstanding. Please, Madame, you must take me to see him!"

She looked aghast. "I cannot possibly take you anywhere tonight, Christine. As I'm in charge of the entertainment I must be on hand should a crisis arise." Her expression softened. "There, do not trouble yourself so. Things will work themselves out."

Christine scoffed in her misery. "Knowing my teacher, do you _honestly_ believe that, Madame?"

She returned Christine's grave stare. "Perhaps, then, whatever has happened is for the best."

"What?" She backed a step away, looking at Madame in hurt disbelief. "How can you say that?"

"You've become too dependent on him. He is not your angel. He is a man, a tortured man with a tortured soul. He can no longer be to you what you wish him to be, and you should not ask it of him." Madame relaxed her stance and her tone. "You need some time to distance yourself from one another, to think matters through. Perhaps, for the present, it is best if you find another voice instructor as he told you in his letter ..."

Christine numbly shook her head, backing up another step, disbelieving of what she was hearing. "Another_ instructor?_ _Dependent_ on him? You don't understand, Madame! You never have. I –" She curbed her words as Madame's eyes flickered in sudden insight.

Christine could bear to hear no more. The sympathy she craved harshly absent and realizing she would not receive Madame's help this time, she whirled away from the woman she once thought so wise. Desperate to find him, she hurried past clusters of guests, who stared at her in curious arrogance. She barely gave them heed as with one objective in mind, she threw open the door of the dressing room.

Thankful to find it empty of La Carlotta and anyone else who might detain her, she swiftly closed the door and turned the key. She rushed to the mirror and felt for the crevice, hoping to find the door slightly ajar, that the latch hadn't caught, as had happened once before.

The mirror wouldn't budge.

"**NO!**" She hit her gloved fist against the cold glass, wishing to break through the unyielding wall of reflection. "Mon Ange! Are you in there? PLEASE come back to me. You don't understand – no one understands. It's NOT what you think. I'm a wretched, childish fool who should have known better … **PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME AGAIN** … don't leave me … _please come back_ …_come back __…_" The sobs that had been burning in her chest since she realized her folly tore hoarsely through her throat. In despair she sank to the ground, tears of agonized remorse streaming down her cheeks.

_"Dear God,_" she bowed her head against the glass. "_What have I done?_"

But she knew exactly what she'd done, and the truth ripped furrows through her heart. In one cherished night, she had attained what she most wanted; and with one thoughtless act, she had thrown it all away.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Well (she says in her defense) I didn't promise a rose garden (get it? rose ...?) :-)**

***honey backs up, hoping her readers are the nice quiet type and don't turn into a mob****…**

**Um****…into every life a little rain must fall? 0-:-)**

***smiles angelically****…**

**then spins around and bolts for cover, wondering if she'll end up being Punjabbed for C & E's sad plight ****… or for the overuse of tired clich****és ****…**

**(Thank you for the reviews! I love reading your comments. :))**


	8. Wandering Child, So Lost, So Helpless

**Hello my phantom phriends. :) This chapter is almost all narrative- sorry, but it was necessary. And I couldn't figure out how to do it any other way...**

* * *

**Chapter VIII**

**.**

Morning broke, stark and cold, and as unforgiving as the night.

Christine arose from her bed at the first glimmer of dawn, before the rest of the cast awakened. Madame had found her huddled in a disheveled heap in front of the locked mirror door, spent from her tears. She had helped her up from the rug and to her dormitory, soothing her with calm assurances that all would be well while Christine remained silent in her despair. Unable to sleep, she tossed and turned all night, playing over and over in her mind the events of the evening. The delights. The distress. Wondering how she could rectify the latter and return to the former. Or if she even could.

Since the time she was a child, no matter where she went in the opera house she sensed him with her, as if he were watching over and guarding her as the Angel he'd pretended to be. The knowledge of his presence had made her feel safe. But now she felt desperately alone.

She could sense him nowhere.

Making a decision, she withdrew a pouch from her trinket box, wrapped a shawl around herself and hurried down the staircase and to the stables before anyone in the chorus woke. Pulling out a few coins she placed them in the coachman's hand.

"To the cemetery."

Ignoring his raised brows at her whispered directive, she hurried inside to the costume room, found and donned a black dress befitting of her mood, and turned to go. Noticing a bouquet of forgotten red roses, half of them fading to black, tears rimmed her eyes, and she hurried away from the depressing sight. She hoped the visit to her father's grave might give her a sense of peace and much-needed direction. She despaired of making another foolish decision; one that could destroy whatever chance still existed, if indeed any hope remained.

Once the carriage trundled from the opera house, the resulting wind caused the long transparent scarf she wore to press cold against her face, like a mask. She closed her eyes sadly, reminiscing of her Angel and dancing in his arms, until she felt the carriage jerk to a stop, pulling her from her wistful thoughts.

Seeing that they had reached her destination, she instructed the driver to wait. Once she moved through the gates, she took the path she'd not visited in almost a year, since the day she turned sixteen. Next month, she would be seventeen, but she didn't wish to delay her yearly visit. Though others thought her morbid, for nine years she sought out her father's grave on the anniversary of her birth, reminded of how he'd made such days special for her, no matter how busy his career made him. It was the one time of year she went to his grave, to revisit those special memories; but this year she'd come early and for a different purpose.

Taking the winding path between monuments of stone, tributes to those lost and loved, she approached her father's grand mausoleum.

"I feel so lost," she whispered, "so helpless. I don't know what to do. I've hurt someone I care about dearly, and I don't know how to make it right or even if he'll allow me near to attempt it. I wish you were somehow here again, Papa, to help and advise me … oh, why can't the past just die!"

Forlorn, she lowered her head against the sharp breeze, aching to feel her Angel's presence. If only he would come to her now! Each birthday she visited the cemetery she had sensed him, knowing he followed. But Erik had not come today; he was not with her. She would know if he was. She always did.

Oh, God, would this hollow ache of loneliness never ease? She had never been entirely alone, until now. First, she had her father, who had gone to live with the angels. Then she had her Angel, who had become to her a man. The most exciting, alluring, dangerous man she had ever known, though he posed no threat to her. Only to others … "Accidents," the cast called them. Such accidents seemed harmless enough. Most were pranks directed toward the reigning diva, which, though uncharitable it may be to think it, La Carlotta often brought on herself with her outrageous demands and supercilious attitude to those she treated as peons beneath her.

_A tortured man, a tortured soul. _Madame's words made Christine close her eyes in compassionate sorrow. Why did he live so far beneath the earth, thinking himself a beast and undeserving of love?

_I'm a dangerous man, Christine, as dangerous as they have forewarned; capable of brutal acts that would make you shrink from me in horror_. His words, so full of sadness, of regret … her words, in reply, had contradicted his wretched admission.

But _what_ brutal acts?

At the time she thought he referred to the minor accidents and foolish gossip, much of it untrue … He did have a nose, and beautiful eyes, green jewel-like eyes, not burning yellow ones. And she'd certainly never seen any "magical lasso" such as the nasty Monsieur Buquet had warned about in his frightful little song. But now she wished to know more. Did her Angel hide beneath the earth, to flee from his past and not his present?

Would he ever again come to her? Ever again sing to her? Ever sing with her?

She would _not_ live without him again!

Determined, she rose from the ground, knowing the decision she must make if he would not heed her pleas to return. He would be furious, but there was no other way than to assume the lead in this, their strange duet. She could no longer meekly follow.

He had guided her by the hand through a mirror, and she had stepped past the fringes of her timid girlhood to learn the image of his captivating world. Now Christine Daae must walk alone and bid adieu to her childish fears in order to step back into that world and become the reflection of the woman they both wanted.

The very thought of what she must do chilled her to the marrow of her soul but the icy fear served to harden her resolve. And she would need every layer of courage to arm herself.

**xXx**

For the remainder of the afternoon, Christine mechanically went through her routines in her practice of song and dance. She often noticed Madame's keen eyes on her and attempted a convincing pretense, one that would seem realistic enough to suggest she had almost but not quite recovered from the incident the night before. She smiled but not often and made a quiet effort to converse with those around her, instead of drifting alone to the empty wings to brood, as she was sorely tempted. Madame seemed convinced, and Meg none the wiser to Christine's little sham.

Once twilight descended, his usual time of the evening to come for her, she slipped through the dressing room, locked the door, and silently waited. She was dismayed but not surprised when he didn't appear that night.

Nor did he come the next.

Nor the next.

On the fourth day, her dismay had weakened against a fervent purpose to follow through with her plan.

Her first maddened instinct – to break through the mirror with a chair – she managed to subdue. Once shattered, the secret entrance could never again be hidden and would invite everyone's curious scrutiny. Not only did countless dangers exist for the wary interloper within the catacomb of twisting cellars, she wouldn't be responsible for an interloper discovering his private underground dwelling.

No. There had to be another way, and she felt sure she knew what it was. Tonight, she would investigate.

She didn't tell Meg of her plan, certain she would try to talk her out of her decision, or worse, prevent her involvement. Meg didn't understand. Nor did her mother. And though her idea was dangerous, deep in her heart Christine knew that if she didn't act, he never would.

After twilight, when all within the opera house lay sleeping, and still he remained absent, she lit a small torch and slipped into the great theater, taking the stairs to the corridor leading to Box Five. Erik had told her other secret passageways existed besides the mirror door, and he always managed to slip in and out of his private box without being seen. So she reasoned there must be a secret entrance into the cellars from this place too.

Inside the box, she pushed her fingertips against every crevice and scroll in columns and walls. The minutes passed without success. She almost gave up in disappointment, pondering what to do next, when a glance through the curtain and into the corridor through which she'd just come made her pause. She stared at the wall.

Could it be so simple?

Retracing her steps, she ran her torch along the wall nearest Box Five, examining the frescoed mirrors along the top and the gold wallpaper beneath. Her pulse thrummed faster to find two faint cracks wide apart and running parallel to the floor. A perfect match to the edges of the mirrors above them. Certain she'd found the entrance, she pressed her short fingernails along the crevices, but nothing happened. She furrowed her brow.

Perhaps, not so simple.

Frustrated, she pushed against the mirror and wall with her palm, then with her shoulder, her fingers at the same time sliding against the ledge that separated mirror and wall. They located a slight upraised bump. Her heart soared a beat in anxious expectation as she pressed in hard.

The bump moved…

…and the wall against which she was leaning swiftly gave way.

She gasped, falling into a dark chamber, just managing to find her balance as the secret door rapidly swung shut behind her, closing her inside. Holding the torch high she stared at the wall of stone on this side of the mirror door in horrified fascination, blinking hard, before she continued along what she saw was a dank, damp corridor.

In this cave-like dwelling, where time seemed to stand still, she lost sense of how far she traveled or how long she walked. The oppressive darkness closed in, threatening to swallow her whole. The ominous silence threatened, save for a taunting drip of water that hit stone and echoed somewhere in the distance. Grateful she had her torch, small though it was in such infinite darkness, she gripped it harder.

"No matter the odds," she breathed, summoning the courage necessary to proceed, reminding herself of all she could lose if she surrendered to fear.

She stayed close to the wall, careful to watch for anything resembling a trap. Erik once told her, during one of their treks from the mirror door, that he placed the majority of them in the middle of the corridor and carved a symbol in stone on the left, not noticeable unless one looked for it. He had long memorized the location of each trap, after so many years dwelling below the earth, and no longer needed those warnings he'd made to himself. She was deeply thankful he never removed them as she came across the carving of a music note on the wall, no bigger than her thumb, and skirted the center of the path, taking a long step sideways while holding to the wall, to put her mind at greater ease.

The corridor soon branched off into two tunnels. She hesitated, recalling the layout of the building and direction of his lair. Taking the path to the right, she walked for some distance, skirting each section of ground where she saw a music note, so small she would have missed it had she not been looking for it. At last she came to a long spiral staircase cut in stone that led downward along one wall. Cautiously she took the steps, evading another music note and keeping pressed to the wall, furthest from the chasm. She felt great relief when she reached the next level and the path grew wider with unlit sconces lining both walls.

She must be getting closer!

Gaining confidence she moved through the corridor, coming to another set of winding stairs and then another. She took them downward and found herself facing two corridors with both sconces and statues carved into the facing of rock. Uncertain, she took the one to the left, again thinking of the layout and hoping she'd not made a mistake. Halfway down, she heard the gentle lap of water against rocks.

The lake! It must be!

She moved forward in anticipation, sure she was approaching her goal when a current of ice-cold air blew into the corridor. The flame from her torch wavered. Horrified, she watched the tongue of fire fight for life before it died completely and she was cast into absolute darkness.

"No!" she softly cried in horror.

Fighting back tears of fright, with no choice but to continue forward, she moved with her back against the wall. She hoped she might soon run across a lit corridor, a sign she was at least heading in the right direction; but he preferred the darkness of the tunnels and the chances of finding a cavern alight were slim.

The scratches of numerous claws scuttling over the stones petrified her. The weighted feel of those sharp claws running across her slippers made her scream in terror.

_Rats!_

She ran ahead in a blind panic, heedless that she couldn't see where she was going. Her foot caught something solid, knocking her off balance. She cried out his name as she fell forward and struck her head against something hard, while the world exploded into a thousand bright lights …

... and then just as suddenly vanished.

**xXx**

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**A/N: Cliffie? No, no cliffie here.**

***Heartless Cruel Authoress blinks in innocence and smiles ****… **

**And I'll bet you thought Erik was going to appear at the cemetery, like he did in movie, didn't you? (HCA loves to keep her readers guessing ...)**

**ummm ... uhhhh ... slowly backs up as unhappy readers swarm forward ****…**

**"Oh, look! Isn't that the Phantom leaning against that wall over there?" **

***waves emphatically and eagerly smiles***

**Advancing mob swings heads around to look ****– **

**HCA runs for her life!**

**Oh look! See? A happy chapter ending. 0-:-) **

**(The authoress got away)**

heh heh heh

**(Thanks for all the reviews- I love them! :D And welcome to my new readers! A moment you've all been waiting for is fast approaching ****… {and no, I don't mean story's end. lol} ... HCA rubs hands together in wicked glee as visions of chapter nine flit across her mind - muahahahaha!)**


	9. The Bridge is Crossed, Now Watch it Burn

**A/N: Barb- you are so right! lol One thing about torches, though, they are much eerier, more haunting, creating a mysterious atmosphere, and that's why I like them better for Phantom stories. :)**

**to all: Sorry this took so long, but I think this might make up for it...**

* * *

**The Bridge is Crossed ... Now Watch it Burn**

**Chapter IX**

.

In the still breath of darkness, Christine dimly became aware of someone carrying her. Her weighted eyelids flickered open for an instant, but all remained black ...

Silent ...

Forgotten ...

She should fear, but fear was absent. The arms that carried her were strong and protective ... She knew these arms, knew the broad slope of his shoulder against which her head rested. The warm scents of candle wax and ink also served to reassure, and weary, her head throbbing, she again succumbed to the thick veil that draped over all conscious thought ...

The next time Christine came to, her mind was still a blur, her scalp tender. Beneath her, the ground felt soft as feathers, while above, light teased her closed eyelids. Quiet draped like a dense curtain, shutting out sound, the whispers of her breathing all she heard.

In wary curiosity of what she might find, she opened her eyes.

She stared at a canopy of transparent black silk. Hopeful, she turned on a pillow, relieved when she saw the crimson and violet sheeting of velvet and realized that she lay within the wings of his majestic carved bed ...

And she remembered.

He had found her. She had not seen him but had felt him. Again, he had come to her when she needed him most.

Encouraged, she did not tarry in seeking him out, though her limbs were weak and it took almost every ounce of strength to sit up. When she did, the world swam at a bizarre angle. She clutched a side of the black veil lowered around her and took several deep breaths.

She must do this ... she had to do this ... she could no longer remain silent.

Once she again felt stable – her urgent need to speak with him burning away the remaining dizziness – she tripped the lever that lifted the curtain and gingerly brought her legs around to climb out of bed. Her feet were clad only in stockings, but after a cursory glance around the empty stone floor, she didn't bother to search for her slippers. Her body trembled, both with relief to be alive, and because of the impending encounter for which she had long waited ...

... and dreaded.

At the entrance to the main room, she stopped and clutched the curtain there, her eyes opening wide in shock at the sight.

Candlesticks had been hurled to the ground. Sheaves of paper littered the stones as if a huge windstorm had swept through the entire chamber of rock. Fewer candles were lit than during her last visit, and on the far side of the cavern, in the golden pool cast by one candelabrum, she spotted Erik, sitting slumped over in a chair near the lake with his back to her.

The coveted sight of him made her inhale a soft, trembling breath and her legs weaken even more.

Swallowing over her nervousness, she quietly moved his way, her hand using the wall as a brace, so as not to fall. She still felt unsteady and her head ached, but not for a little physical discomfort would she turn back now.

She took the first set of stairs downward, noticing the closed curtain over the chamber with the mannequin, then stepped over a fallen candlestick. Cautiously, this area darker, she made it up the next short flight of stairs and to his pipe organ.

He turned suddenly at the rustle of paper beneath her feet.

She stopped, almost afraid to continue.

The part of his face that she could see appeared to be carved in pale marble, as unyielding as his half mask. His jaw went rigid, his stance foreboding as he rose from his chair and glared up at where she stood. With his dark hair mussed and his shirt untied, hanging open almost to the waist, he looked as disheveled as his surroundings and darkly alluring.

"You dim-witted little fool," he rasped quietly. "Have you a death wish? I warned you never to come through those tunnels alone!"

Not the greeting she had hoped for but the one she expected.

"I had to see you." She moved to the edge of the stairs.

"_Why? _"

_Why? _Her heart tripped in disbelief that he should ask such a question and she spoke without thinking. "I needed no pomegranate to return to you. Does that tell you nothing?"

"You are **_not_** Persephone," he bellowed, "and this is no fairy tale!"

"No, it's not. It's very real."

Her soft, adamant reply gave him pause, but all too soon he clenched his jaw again and narrowed stormy eyes. "Shall I tell you about the god Hades, my dear?" His words dripped venom. "He was ruthless, nothing like I led you to believe. He kidnapped Persephone from those she loved and forced her to stay with him in his dark underworld to become his bride. Before she returned with Hermes to her family he tricked her into eating the pomegranate to bind her forever to him. A curse." He smiled cruelly. "That is all he was to her."

She gasped. "Why tell me this now?"

"You are no longer bound to me, Christine. Do you see a pomegranate anywhere?" He waved his arm around the disorderly room. "Go back to your precious boy. _I don't want you here!_"

His cold menacing words cut her heart to the quick though she knew he spoke from his own deep pain. She could see the despair darken his hollow eyes as she carefully moved down the last set of stairs. _She_ had done this to him. She wanted to cry for her foolishness but forced a quiet calm.

"He's not my boy. He's not my anything."

"Do you treat all those who mean nothing to you with a kiss?"

His terse reply told her all she needed to know, and she ached inside for what he had seen and not understood. Before she could attempt an explanation, he lashed out again.

"If you wanted to be with him, why did you ask me to take you?"

She moved closer. "Because I wanted _you_ to be my escort, Mon Ange—"

"So you have said! Though I find it difficult to believe. It is considered highly bad form to exit the ball with anyone other than the escort who brought you, my dear. Even if that escort is _only your teacher. _"

His sardonic words did the opposite of discouraging her; they filled her with hope.

"And what do my actions in coming here tell you now?"

"You swore to me you would never do so. Another promise you did not see fit to keep!"

"You promised you would come to me. But you didn't! I waited at the mirror each night—"

"**_It's ALWAYS about the damnable lessons, isn't it?_**" He growled the question in rage, flinging his arms back. One hand connected with a gold statuette on a table and sent it hurtling to the stones. In the ringing stillness, he fiercely continued, "I told you I would establish your career! That has not changed, whether I remain your instructor or not."

"This has nothing to do with my lessons," she whispered, moving closer.

He spun on his heel as if he'd not heard her and pressed his palms to the sides of his head, as if wishing to squeeze out the images there. "Woman, why do you take pleasure in this torment!"

Horrified, she stopped her advance. "Is that what you believe?" she asked loudly enough so he was sure to hear. "That I WISH to hurt you?"

Slowly he drew himself up and dropped his arms back to his sides. His carriage tall, regal, again in command, he turned to spear her with his steely gaze.

"You make it very clear, mademoiselle." His manner became reserved, detached. "My eyes do not deceive me. I know what I saw on the roof. But it no longer matters."

"Oh, really?" She steadily regarded him, his wretched stubbornness setting off her own angry frustration and making her blood boil. "Well, I don't believe you. Sometimes I wonder if you can see ANYTHING at all! Or if this endless darkness you choose to inhabit has blinded you to the TRUTH."

"**And what the hell is THAT supposed to mean?**" All pretense of formality vanished as he bridged the remaining distance between them and towered over her - dangerous, dark, imposing. "_What truth?_" His tone changed, became deadly soft.

She blinked up at him, instantly weak to have him so near, to feel the heat radiate from his body. She felt no fear of him, though others did and perhaps she should. Instead his enraged behavior ignited the fire in her own spirit and she didn't retreat from his challenge or his presence.

"Sometimes I think you see only what you wish to see. Or what you feel you need to see. Though for what reasons I cannot begin to comprehend. Look at me, Erik. _Look at me and see what I truly feel ... _"

Silence stretched, expectant and tense. His breathing grew even more rapid, and he glanced away.

"**_NO! Look at me! _**"

Her voice quaking with emotion, she grabbed his head and forced him to stare into her upturned eyes. They glowed as with hidden flames.

Bold.

Demanding ...

The sudden feel of her soft palms against his tight jaw made him start but otherwise he didn't move.

"I broke one rule of convention with my invitation to you." Her voice trembled soft but strong. "And you assume me guilty of yet another fault, though I never wanted to be with Raoul. Forgive me, or don't, if I feel no remorse in breaking a third rule. I am truly beyond caring anymore."

She pulled his head down, while reaching up, and pressed her lips to his. The urgent need to force him to understand eclipsed all else.

Her unexpected act staggered him, rendering him immobile.

For a breathless moment, neither did she move.

The firm contact of his soft lips on hers sent sparks of awareness rippling through Christine's blood that she hadn't expected, had never felt with the only other kiss she ever received. That kiss meant little to her, but had been the needed catalyst to bring about this kiss ... which now meant everything in her world.

The unfolding desire to learn the contours of his mouth with her own enticed her to brush her lips slowly across his parted ones, her unsteady breaths warmly dispensing their chill.

Shaken to her core, she pulled away to look at him.

He had yet to respond, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. Her heart pounded from both anticipation and pain.

"Let there be no further games of make-believe between us," she whispered, staring at his mouth that now trembled. Her eyes lifted to his dazed ones. "This is not about Persephone and Hades, or Roses and Phoenixes, or Don Juan and Aminta. This is entirely _us. _"

Still, he did not move.

"Tell me you don't want this, Erik ..."

Her words quiet, intense, she caressed his cheek with her fingertips. He drew an uneven hiss of a breath.

"Tell me I'm wrong and you don't care ..."

He closed his eyes, his head turning slightly from her touch.

She lifted her other hand to stroke his jaw beneath the mask. "Tell me I mean nothing more to you than a pupil. Tell me if you wish it. But I won't believ—"

Growling low deep in his throat he lunged forward the scant distance and pressed his palms against her heated cheeks to hold her fixed – while his mouth bore down hungrily on hers. She whimpered with the same need as her hands clutched his shoulders.

Something broke inside and unchained his soul at the sound. She melted into him, her lips opening in a sigh beneath his, her tongue brushing his lip in invitation. He groaned, needing no further enticement.

Their kiss bore little semblance to a lovers' first kiss of awkward curiosity as his long-held, explosive longing for her brought him to test the full limits of human endurance. Nothing else mattered to Erik but blissful touch, the sweet savor of his mouth on hers, her silken hair and cool skin beneath his hands. His arms moved to embrace her. He tasted the salt of her tears ... or were they his own? From afar, he had viewed future shadows of their kisses but never dreamt their reality could affect him with such shattering force.

Christine clutched handfuls of his shirt, struggling to remain upright, his passion beyond anything she had dreamed. His kisses, deep and searching, ignited her blood so that she feared she would be consumed. Her mind spinning, she felt her knees give way. He caught her hard against him.

His mouth broke contact with hers, his eyes dark with both desire and concern as they looked into her own.

"My God, Christine," he whispered hoarsely. He pulled his brow toward his mask a little in confusion. "You are still hurt?"

Hurt?

Why should he think that, when her every nerve ending tingled warm, not from pain but with pleasure? Yet she couldn't think, couldn't speak. She could only stare up at him through heavy-lidded, stunned eyes.

What he saw in them she didn't know, but suddenly he lifted one hand to part her curls near her forehead. She winced when his fingertips brushed through her thick hair and found the knot on her scalp. She wished to tell him her lightheadedness was as much from his kiss as her fall but, breathless, she could do nothing.

Softly Erik swore and swept her up into his arms. Nestling her head beneath his jaw, she held fast to his strong shoulders. He walked with her to his bedchamber and carefully laid her on his bed. When he pulled away, she kept her arm around him, also bringing her other one up to prevent his retreat, needing him close, needing his touch.

"Don't go ..."

With gentle purpose, he broke her hold from around his neck. "I did not realize the extent of your injury." He straightened to stand and looked down at her, his darkened eyes a glittering mask that once again she couldn't read. "You must have struck your head on the wall ... I found you lying insensible on the ground."

His words were hollow, still as breathless as hers, and she reached out to clasp his hand at his side, flushing at the thought of what they just shared.

"I knew you would come."

"You should not have traveled through those tunnels alone." A harsh note crept into his voice. "That route has more traps than the pathway from the mirror in your dressing room. You are fortunate you made it as far as you did."

"The mirror was locked, and I could no longer bear the thought of not seeing you another night ... I remembered what you said about the music notes you carved. I've grown accustomed to the cellars and what to be aware of when traveling through them. Had my torch not gone out, I would have made it. Perhaps I acted foolishly to walk without a guide, but I would have been more foolish to do nothing at all."

"We will speak of this later. You must rest."

He moved to go.

She did feel weary, but his abrupt distance after their newfound intimacy alarmed her.

"Erik," she softly called to him. He hesitated then turned to look at her. "Promise me that our make believe and pretenses are at last at an end?"

"We will speak of this later." His tone came more quietly but still seemed cold.

Again he moved toward the entrance.

"I didn't kiss him. He kissed me."

He froze, standing motionless for eternal seconds, then slowly turned. His ever-changing eyes now glowed feral green, probing hers, demanding answers, answers she'd waited days to give.

"He asked to kiss me goodbye. I thought he would kiss my cheek like he did when we were children, but he didn't. It came as a surprise but meant nothing to me except a token of friendship." Christine fumbled over the words in her desperate need to reveal the truth of all that happened, to make him understand. She took a calming breath.

"I told him I couldn't see him," she said more slowly. "He guessed there was someone else. What you saw was us reminiscing of our childhood together and saying goodbye to those days. He left so suddenly then, when I was six. His family left without warning, and we never said goodbye. It may sound silly, but I think he needed to say it, since he now realizes there could never be anything else for us."

He stared for the longest time as if turned to a pillar of stone, like one of his many statues.

"Mon Ange, tell me you believe me." Her eyes beseeched him to understand.

"I have never known you to lie," he whispered.

"I would never lie to you."

He nodded distantly.

"Tell me you are no longer angry with me?"

"For your reckless venture in coming here, though you were warned of the many dangers?" His voice slightly increased in volume, proving just how angry he still was.

"For the night of the ball."

His breath escaped in a weary sigh and he closed his eyes.

"And yes, for tonight too."

His lips turned up the slightest bit, encouraging her, and she smiled hopefully.

He opened his eyes and regarded her with mild exasperation. "Christine, Christine ... so much a woman, yet still so much a child."

His answer wasn't what she wished to hear, but at least he had calmed and no longer seemed rigid with detachment or unapproachable in his fury.

"We _will_ talk later. For now, you must rest. And so you do not seek me out if you should awaken and not find me – and this time, end up toppling over into the freezing lake – I am going above to fetch Madame."

She grimaced at his mild, dry tone, wondering if he now thought her incompetent, always needing led by the hand. He had called her a child ... but he also had called her a woman ...

She tried to sound more mature. "That's not necessary—"

"Nonetheless, she should be informed of your whereabouts, so they do not send search parties looking for you. I cannot risk them finding my home. You will be safe while I am gone, Christine, _if _you remain in that bed.

Reluctantly she nodded.

"I will return soon. You'll not even notice my absence."

She doubted that but didn't persist. Her volatile emotions, the strain of past days, not to mention her frightening encounter in the darkness of the tunnels all had taken their toll, and her head had begun to throb again. She closed her eyes and heard him walk away.

No matter the ordeal she suffered, it was worth it. She had accomplished what she'd set out to do; they were again together and talking, and that gave her a sense of great victory.

Somehow she would also work through this wretched distance he again seemed determined to create. At the memory of their embrace, her face flushed with warmth, both shy and eager. She hadn't intended to kiss him. But when she looked up into his eyes glowing with torment and anger, the need to get through to him with a kiss had seemed natural ...

She had seen the hunger in his eyes and felt it in his touch. He desired her as much as she wanted him, and his uninhibited response made her breath catch even now. Perhaps she was wicked to think such impure thoughts, hardly befitting of a good Catholic girl, but deep in her heart she had wanted this for so long!

Wanted this ... and so much more ...

And she was determined to have every bit of it.

**xXx**

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**A/N: So, things have at last shifted between them, and yet the drama has only begun ****…**

**And I'm trusting I'm safe for the moment from all Punjabs and angry readers? 0-:-)**

**Thanks for that bit of constructive criticism- always appreciated when it's done nicely. :) And a big thank you to all my phantom phriends who have commented and encouraged ... I so appreciate you taking the time to do so! Red roses tied with black ribbons for all of you ... compliments of Erik, of course.**

**;-)**


	10. Sometimes it seemed, if I just dreamed

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) For those following my other story- yes! Two chapters in less than 24 hours - can you believe it? lol I felt so bad about how long it's been for both stories and worked last night and today to get this up as well- (I've been sick with the flu). Thanks for your patience. :)**

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**Sometimes it seemed, if I just dreamed ****…**

**Chapter X**

**.**

Within scant days, _hours_, the entirety of the Phantom's existence had both collided with the cruel hand of calamity and been knocked off its axis by an unforeseen surge of ... dare he even dream it?

Hope.

Acceptance …

_Love __…?_

Gripped in the throes of utter bewilderment, his eyes barely seeing, he sat sprawled in a chair by his mini theater, as he'd been sitting for the past half hour, and stared numbly into space.

He had bitterly resigned himself to a lifetime of solitude writing his operas while managing Christine's career in secret and finding her another teacher. He'd even composed a letter to that effect. And then, she had come gliding back into his harsh dungeon with her quiet logic and dazzling confidence. And with one gentle kiss she had shaken him to the depths of his black, unworthy soul.

He recalled only minutes before she'd made her appearance hearing her scream his name in terror deep within the cellars. Before that, he sensed her near though he had not believed it, certain his wretched longing for her was torturing and would forever torture his mind. Her sharp cry of his name – he had _felt_ as a blow and understood with horror, and he had raced from his lair through the tunnel beyond his bedchamber, to find her lying prone on the ground - and chillingly close to a trapdoor.

At first he feared she was dead and in that excruciating moment relived the dark anguish of future shadows, made all the more horrible because the present could never be undone. He too felt as if he had perished. Five feet more and she would have been forever lost to an infinite chasm beneath the trap. To hear her moan had been a balm of music to his agonized heart.

It was with feelings of rage for her childish ignorance in courting danger and her betrayal on the roof that he'd confronted her so harshly. It was with equal feelings of intense concern when he couldn't rouse her and his great relief to see her awake that he'd not attempted to shake sense into her foolish head. But all of that paled in comparison to the upheaval he now felt, and for a far different reason. A reason he could scarcely comprehend.

Could not yet even dare to believe …

He approached the past hour with tentative wonder, afraid to consider something so impossible, that Christine should desire _him, _not only as her teacher, but as her lover, her **_lover_,** could indeed be true. He, the resident ghost with the face of a monster, the one beauty had chosen, even foolishly braving the depths of his dark dungeons without precise knowledge of where to go in her desperate attempt to reach him ...

Could this night truly be real?

Their embrace he lived over and over and still felt as astounded now as he had been then. Her sweet kisses were the sole expression of true intimacy he had ever received. In one instant they shattered every barrier, every safeguard he'd erected around his heart, at the same time flooding its empty chambers with elation and awe. He'd been powerless to move, never having experienced anything so utterly devastating and wholly exhilarating in his entire existence.

Her earnest words of no more make believe or pretenses lilted as a gentle melody in his mind, a rippling stream that soothed and revived the edges of his awareness.

All of this time she had cared for him? For **_him?_**

Her tender insistence to know the truth of his feelings had unleashed a swell of passion and need that surpassed Erik's frozen shock and burst from the confines beyond which he'd long trapped such heretofore useless emotions.

He had shown no restraint in giving her all she asked.

But what of her? Could she possibly have enjoyed his pathetic expressions of love when he was as inexperienced as she? Had he not overheard a vile member of the chorus say that women preferred men with extensive knowledge of corporeal matters?

Erik considered her reaction to his kiss. She had not regarded him with disgust, but there had been an unfocused look in her eyes, which had darkened considerably, the pupils large with ... pain? He had written songs that were a seducing litany of his desire to know her, to woo her, to love her, but when it came to the actual expression of his intimate feelings, he'd been clumsy and forceful and feared he had hurt her worse.

He groaned. He was a fool for not realizing she'd wounded herself in the cellars!

Once he'd found her there and laid her on his bed, he had been quick to leave the chamber. Her soft murmurings in her unconscious state assured him she was alive. But his rage and relief at her folly had been so great he knew he _must_ put distance between them, not wanting to cause her further harm and fearing in his anxious fury he very well might ... He resumed that distance when he laid her on his bed a second time. Yet he had stayed, as she again slept, and moments later had laid a damp cloth across her brow, brushing his lips there first.

His love for her composed every good thing about him. At the same time its intensity threatened his very sanity. Could she possibly return such feelings in some small measure? Had her expressions of desire stemmed from more than curiosity or mutual attraction?

God, was he _mad_ to think such thoughts? No less mad than to believe she could be attracted to him, surely.

He clutched his wig and felt it slip. Growling, he ripped the damned thing off and hurled it to the ground. His mind became entrenched in darker thoughts …

He still suffered with the nightmares. If she should hear, she would know, and then she would despise him. For surely she would flee when she learned what a beast her Angel truly was. He had seen the horror in her eyes when he spoke of the murders in the shadow world, murders never committed …

Yet those murders of pretense couldn't begin to compare to the horrible slayings of reality. So many … so many …

He clutched his head in his hands, his elbows digging into his knees. Better to tell her all of it, now, before fate once more acted with merciless intent and robbed him of everything precious, robbed him of his Angel. Better she should know the truth, _NOW_, before he allowed his withered heart she had brought to life to continue on this fragile course.

She would leave him, yes. These past days without her he had reconciled himself to a wretched life of solitude. Better for her to go at this time, than to say nothing and allow the astounding possibility of his dream to unfold, to have her become his bride and she leave him then, if she should learn of his duplicity. How much sharper the pain would be to bear!

But _how_ … _HOW_ could he tell her, when he knew that to hear the truth could destroy every dream she believed in with regard to her _Angel_? Everything good. Everything noble ... no matter that at its foundation coiled a lie.

Madame's brisk step on the stones alerted him to the invasion of his bitter soliloquy. Abruptly he rose and took an uncertain step forward.

"She is all right." He phrased the words as a statement, not a question. They _must_ be true.

"I am no doctor, Maestro, but I have seen head injuries of this nature before." Her words were soft, her eyes severe. "She shouldn't attempt the long trek to the opera house. She must remain quiet. By Monday she ought to be well enough for you to bring her back. If she's not improved then you must tell me and I will send for a doctor. I have given her a tonic for the pain and will leave the bottle here. Give it to her no more than twice a day. She sleeps now."

He nodded wearily, having suspected she would need to remain in his chambers.

"I told her she was a fool." Her words grew stiff. "And you are a fool for letting it come to this."

He scowled at her attack. "You blame ME for her accident? I warned her never to act so childishly as to come here alone." He lifted his hand in vexed agitation. "I WILL NOT defend myself to you!"

"_Childishly, _monsieur?" she scoffed. "She acted with the heart of a woman who will not be denied. Recklessly, yes. But not as a child."

Her words momentarily stripped him of speech and she secretly smiled, though her eyes remained hard. "At last. The look on your face tells me the blinders have fallen away. You know it too."

He stared at the stones, unsure of exactly what he knew. So much had happened so fast; he'd had little time to sort it all out. That Christine cared for him, yes, incredible as it was. But to what extent? Would her affection be strong enough to weather the severity of what he must soon tell her?

"As her guardian, I wish to know what you intend to do about it?"

He stared at the woman in black as if he'd never seen her.

"_Do_ about it?"

He repeated the words as if they made no sense.

"You should know, Maestro, I advised her against continuing her association with you when she came to me at the ball and begged my guidance in bringing her here. This incident proves what I have long feared and warned you of once before. You have entranced her mind and captured her soul. She will not be stopped. After speaking with her tonight, I am sure of this. She will always find her way back to you, to keep you in her life no matter the cost to herself, now that she knows you are a living, breathing man and not an untouchable celestial being. So I ask you once more, what do you intend to do about it?"

Still he stared, unable to shape an answer, much less comprehend her question.

She huffed a breath in vexation, walked over to the chamber with the mannequin and grabbed the tapestry. With one wrench of her hands, she pulled it down.

"_This, _monsieur." She looked at him. "This dream you have long desired is well within reach. Will you take it? The choice is yours to make."

He looked at the mannequin in the wedding gown and veil, a sad replica of Christine he had attempted to craft. No artist's tool could capture her pure, gentle beauty, her spirit and fire.

"Keep _this _in mind during the upcoming days alone with her. Do not cast aside your true aspirations for what could only amount to certain sorrow if you both were to choose unwisely. With plans for your new opera underway, I won't be able to come down and check on her progress. But I trust I leave her beneath the wings of the Angel and not under the spell of the Phantom? And that she will return with everything … intact?"

Her meaning painfully clear, he snapped out of his stupor, heat crawling up his neck. "She shall return to you as pure as the night she left her dormitory." His words came mocking to cover his embarrassment. "You must make an excuse to the managers for her disappearance, one that will raise no further questions."

"Very well." She hesitated, clearly not yet satisfied. "I needn't remind you that her reputation is vital to her career, especially at this time. She already receives snubs from many of the cast, and your plan to replace the present diva with Christine has stirred numerous jealousies. Should any sort of … scandal be linked with her character so close to her debut as the lead, it may well cast a dark shadow on her triumph as a rising operatic star."

_"Madame," _he growled, _"you try my patience!" _

"I do not fear you, Maestro. I never have. If I did, I would not have brought you here to live on that night twenty-two years ago, and I certainly never would have assisted you during the entirety of that time. I am accustomed to your bark and bluster and your volatile mood swings. Usually I bear them and remain silent. You have been treated unjustly and I do not fault your need to vent your frustrations now and then. But tonight I _will_ say my piece." She drew herself up. "We spoke of this once before, but the situation has changed between the two of you. I see it in your eyes. I see it in hers."

"You have made your point ad infinitum," he said wearily. "I am not dull-witted. You may go now."

"Oui, I will go." She hesitated and her voice grew softer. "I only speak because I want both of you to realize your dreams. You are not dull of wit, monsieur, quite the contrary. But regrettably you are both far too passionate in nature and rush headlong into areas where MOST angels fear to tread. There. It is done. I have said my piece."

At last.

"Just make certain she remains in your bed, and you stay far from it," she added in parting as she moved to the boat.

The Phantom could have cheerfully drowned her.

Instead he turned his back on the meddlesome woman and moved toward his pipe organ. Where music had always beckoned him before, acting as an outlet to his rage or fear, now he found he couldn't concentrate, though losing himself in the notes required little to no concentration. Tonight, however, his mind remained on one subject alone, one moment, one episode, and he doubted even his music could calm the steady, persistent beat of his heart.

_Christine. _

Desiring to assure himself of her well being, or at least that is what he told himself, he moved to the entrance of his bedchamber. His eyes immediately went to her slight form, buried beneath the thick eiderdown. She lay still, her breathing even and calm as she slept, and he again knew relief that her near-death experience left her with no more than a tender lump on the head. He walked closer, to the edge of the bed, and looked down at the woman he'd always thought of as his own dear angel, just as she'd thought him one.

Never mind that he understood all the warnings Madame emphasized and those she refrained from speaking. One kiss from his angel's lips had both shattered his being and restored his heart. He couldn't imagine how it would affect him if he should dare partake of those unspoken pleasures that might follow another kiss ...

_Another_ _kiss! _

His breathing grew ragged at the thought of recreating such bliss. Against all logic, the long-held dream he buried after the spirits' visitation flickered to life, a small flame of hope he still couldn't risk to nurture, but neither could he yet extinguish.

Pulling the lever that brought the curtain down he watched it descend around her.

"My beautiful Angel of Music," he whispered. "Dare I allow the dream to begin ...?"

He must tell her the truth soon. All of it. For having looked into her eyes, shining for him, he could no longer bear the lie.

**xXx**

Christine awoke, feeling less groggy, though her head still ached. But unaccustomed to idleness, she couldn't lie still in bed, hour after hour. Except for a trip to relieve nature's tendencies, beyond the bedchamber in a small room made for that purpose, Christine remained inert in her Angel's bed. She felt grateful that Madame had brought her a loose nightdress, relieved to have dispensed with the dratted corset and at last able to breathe much easier.

It was Madame's harsh rebuke that had given her cause for another discomfort.

Christine shook any flickering qualms aside, confident that she'd done what she must. Except for the inconvenient bump to her head, she wasn't the least bit sorry or displeased with the results. Well ... almost. There was still the perturbing matter of the distance he stubbornly created, and yet, before he returned with Madame, she had stirred to find a cold compress against her brow and a thicker coverlet of the same luxurious velvet as the sheets to warm her. Surely, if he were still angry he wouldn't have seen to her comfort?

She pulled up the curtain again enclosing her in transparent black silk and carefully swung her legs around, bracing her hands on the soft, spongy mattress for leverage.

"Must I tie you to that bed?"

Startled to hear his deep, rich voice that never failed to send tingles dancing along her spine, she looked up to where Erik stood in the entrance. His arms were crossed, his stance rigid and formidable, his appearance as attractively disheveled as before.

"Hello," she said with a hopeful smile. "Is it morning yet?"

"Regardless of whether it is or is not a new day – _you_ are not to leave that bed."

She gave a little pout. "How long am I to be subjected to complete bed rest?"

"Until I say you are able to rise."

She let out a little sigh of restless discontent. "Oh, very well." She pulled her legs back up, bringing them beside her. "I understand I'm to stay here for the next few days?"

"Yes."

She hesitated at his terse answer. "I hope I won't be an imposition, since I wasn't invited."

"An imposition, Christine?" he lifted his visible brow.

She blushed and motioned to the coverlet. "In taking your bed."

He said nothing.

"I know you're not accustomed to having company for so long. And I'm also sorry I won't be able to attend practices or engage in my lessons."

"We shall have to make up for the lost days, and you will need to work harder."

She nodded distantly then lifted her eyes to his. "Will you talk with me?"

"Is that not what we're doing?"

"In a sense, yes, but … not as I wish." She hesitated. "Will you come and sit beside me? You make me nervous standing there with your arms crossed like that, as if I've been a naughty child."

"Should I be pleased with your recent conduct?"

"I had hoped you might like it. You seemed to, before I swooned."

Her shy words struck him with fierce awareness. He had been speaking of the tunnels; she had been speaking of their kiss.

The knowledge made his heart pound a little harder, and her cheeks went rosier. She looked both innocent and beguiling, with the covers clutched to her chest, her hair wild and flowing all around her. Heat flamed his own face, and he turned aside, grateful for the mask, which hid the part she could see.

"Please, come talk with me, Mon Ange."

His first inclination was to refuse, to reprimand her for using a term that clearly did not suit him, what with the sudden wicked images running through his mind of just what he would like to do to her … He felt the need to make ANY excuse to leave, to again catch his breath and steady his nerves. He turned to offer an excuse and noticed the wistful sparkle in her eyes that softly beckoned him.

"Perhaps, for a moment," he allowed reluctantly, unable to refuse her. She only wished to talk, after all. Surely, he could give her that.

Cautiously he moved to the foot of the bed and took a seat, managing somehow to affect a cool detachment. "What is it you wish to discuss, Christine? The opera? The ballet? The lessons?"

"Us."

One word, delivered so softly, had the power to rob him of thought and speech.

"I want to talk about us, Erik, about what happened. I meant every word I said." Her eyes glowed in earnestness, her manner both timid and determined. "And now that I have spoken, I … I should like to know how you feel. About me."

He should have gone while he had the chance. He still could go. Nothing held him there. Nothing …

Except the plea of an Angel.

Unaccustomed to discussing his emotions with anyone, much less the woman around whom they revolved, he faltered with how to answer. Since their kiss, he lived within a paradox of dreams and confusion. Yet in her expression he recognized the fervent need to know more and found he couldn't disappoint her.

"You have seen my drawings," he said very quietly. "You have heard my songs. I wrote them for you, and not only for the role to be played. You were accurate in that regard."

She gave a relieved little smile, but her eyes glistened in confusion. "Then why … why are you still so distant toward me?" she finished after an uncertain little pause.

He closed his eyes. "Christine, we do have matters to discuss, but now is not the time."

"Why not?"

"At this moment you are unable to leave that bed. Should I tell you what you wish to hear now, you will have no choice but to stay in my cellars. Therefore, we should postpone further conversation on this matter until you again have a choice."

"A choice?" She pulled her brows together. "I don't understand. Why should you think I would wish to leave your home? For any reason?"

He shook his head wearily.

"No, don't do that. Please, Erik, tell me. Tell me now. If you don't, I will only worry about what horrid thing you might have to say to me over the next few days, and surely that will hamper my recovery if I lay here anxious the entire time. Yes?" She lifted her brows in persuasion, her manner both hopeful and childlike.

His heart twisted within him. When she looked at him so sweetly, as if he weren't a beast, but a man, he fought the mad inclination to give her anything for which she asked.

"No." Quickly, he turned away before she could break his resolve. "We will speak of this in three days. For now, I will bring you something to eat. You must be famished."

He left before she could convince him to reconsider. Yet with his recent experience of her unrelenting determination to hear his song, he feared that his silence would not be long lasting.

**xXx**

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**A/N: Would love to know what you think! :)**


	11. Under His Wing

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! I appreciate the constructive criticism too. (In wanting to end it with a humorous overtone as an end to the conversation with M. Giry and Erik in the last chapter, I guess I DID do too much tell there and repeated something already shown ... sorry ...) **

**Also, just to make something clear, in the case of Christine's accident ****– hitting her head so that knocked her out- in the possibility of a concussion, I _know_ the patient is supposed to stay awake. However, from what I could discern, that knowledge came with more modern medicine, because I couldn't find any instance of such instructions when researching this time period. With that in mind, I wrote the story accordingly, with only the knowledge they would have had then ****– and besides, M. Giry is no doctor. ;-) **

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**Under his wing**

**Chapter XI**

**.**

Christine lay on her back and stared with annoyed frustration at the transparent dome of ebony silk enclosing her. Trapped within the luxury of his majestic bed, she wished for Erik to return and sit by her side to keep her company. To talk to her, perhaps read to her, hopefully sing to her. At this point, she would even gladly endure one of his dour tantrums, often brought on as a result of someone, usually La Carlotta, "murdering the opera." To hear his voice and have him offer companionship again, she would suffer through anything!

Instead, he kept to himself, silent and distant as the Opera Ghost of his stature.

Was he still upset with her for taking the underground journey to his lair alone?

Angry with her for breaking through the wall of his false disregard in demand that he show his true feelings - and _at last_ recognize hers?

Enraged with her for her ill-conceived kiss with Raoul above the rooftop during the Bal Masque?

Was what Erik had to tell her so horrendous that he felt he must put off speaking entirely until the final night of her stay, in his certainty that she would leave him and never return? _Did he not hear a word she'd said?_ Did he not realize _all she'd endured_ to be with him and that his silence only made matters worse?

She was beyond weary of people telling her how she must act or what she should feel: The managers with their arrogant bullying; Raoul with his forceful persuasions; Meg with her foolish reasoning. Erik spoke of giving Christine choices, but she chose to hear what he would say _now_.

And he would have none of it.

He had been to her an angel, and she revered him as supreme authority in her childhood. She had always obeyed her teacher and still respected him as her Maestro. But each time Christine visited _Erik_, as the woman she'd become, she grew more comfortable seeing him as the man he truly was. Still imposing and powerful, yes, but she experienced an ease she'd never completely felt with the nameless entity of his pretense. For a moment she thought about that, her face growing warm with the wicked secret she'd carried for so long, in believing his. Now that she knew the truth, much of her insecurity and awkwardness had vanished. And she simply would no longer tolerate being treated as an ignorant child! She had made her choice, she had almost _died_ for that choice - but Erik still refused to see it.

Her head began to throb. With distaste, she reached for the bottle that sat beside the musical box with the Persian monkey, also taking the silver cup Erik had provided, three times the size of a thimble. She poured her evening dose of tonic for the pain and drank the foul potion down with a grimace.

She was certainly no stranger to seclusion. In the world above his lair, when not sharing time with Meg or engaging in practices, Christine often kept her own company. But her solitude had never gone on for such long stretches and without the ability to move at will. She couldn't remember _ever_ being confined to her bed.

She understood Erik had not asked for her ongoing presence in his home. Still, she hadn't believed he would so utterly _ignore_ _her_ and had been surprised when earlier he refused her softly beseeching plea for an explanation and walked away, with the swift excuse of seeing to her meal. Within minutes, he'd brought her a plate of cheese and fruit. Then, after a curt nod to her smiling thanks, he turned on his heel and left before she could utter another word. That had been what surely must amount to several hours ago, though it felt ten times that.

"Oh, bother the Maestro Angel - more like Phantom Fiend," she bit out under her breath in disgusted frustration, sick to death of being ordered to bed and forgotten, put away and secluded in a pretty little chamber, like his mannequin doll.

She had thought after their forthright discussion, which had ended in the whirlwind kiss, that they might finally put all misunderstandings behind them. Obviously that was not to be.

At the sound of brisk footsteps, she lifted herself up on her elbows, watching the entrance intently, hoping he might soon appear. Once again her expectations were dashed, as the ring of his steps grew distant, moving to the other side of the lake room. She sighed in annoyance and flopped back to the pillow.

She had difficulty connecting the exciting man of uninhibited passion who'd held her so fiercely and kissed her so desperately with the cold, aloof ... _ghost_ of a being who preferred to keep residence in the adjoining room.

Warmth tingled through her veins at the memory of his mouth searing hers, of his cool hands on her equally cool skin, both which soon warmed in their shared passion, as if two empty souls were coming to life again. And that was exactly how she'd felt.

She didn't regret kissing him, even if it had been a shocking thing to do for a girl her age, with no experience. She'd dreamt of his kiss for some time, ever since the night he first brought her here, no … even before that. And if she could live the moment over, she would do it again. Though she might have chosen a better method of reaching his lair, or at least thought to bring matches. She'd done well enough until her torch blew out.

Granted, he had accustomed himself to a life of seclusion in his strange pretense to become both Angel and Phantom. But they were _hardly _strangers. She had shared other nights with him in this lair, in taking her lessons. So why did he snub her now, treating her with such a confounding lack of interest?

Frowning, Christine sat up, the need to remain in bed no longer a directive she could acknowledge. She tipped the lever to raise the slightly lifted curtain the entire way and swung her legs over the bed. A dizzying sense of displacement had her clutch the scalloped edge, its sharp outline pricking her fingers, and she wrinkled her brow in confusion, for the first time noting the variation of silver metal compared to golden bird. The foundation for the mattress looked like ... a shell? Whoever heard of a bird with a shell? Was there such a bird? Christine shook her head trying to clear it. Whatever drug the potion contained made it difficult to think.

Once out of the covers, the brisk air chilled her flesh and she gathered Erik's black velvet robe around her, tying the long sash, thankful he'd left at least _something_ of himself behind. The hem trailed the floor by several inches. Yet her train wasn't what made her stagger, and she slapped her hand to the cave wall so as not to fall. She couldn't seem to walk properly and assumed the potion caused the weakness in her limbs as well.

"What are you doing out of that bed?"

His curt question made her start – how had she not heard his footsteps this time? She frowned, looking over her shoulder at the formidable stance of her Phantasmal dark angel.

"What does it _look_ like I'm doing?"

At her equally abrupt rejoinder, his eyes widened in evident astonishment that she would speak to him so brusquely.

"I told you to stay in bed and rest."

She narrowed her eyes. "Forgive me, _Maestro_, but sometimes your orders cannot be followed to the letter." She resumed her sluggish walk, using the wall for support.

"Stop acting like an impudent child and get back in that bed before your legs give out beneath you. Or you step on that absurd sash and stumble."

"I _can't _go back! Not yet_._" Her face flushed hot and she looked away, wishing he would just go. Of all times to finally make an appearance, he couldn't have picked a worse moment.

"What do you mean? Why can you not …" His voice trailed away as he suddenly must have noted the direction she headed. "Oh."

"_Now_ will you go and leave me be?" She felt her entire body flush in mortification and wished for one of his trap doors to open beneath her feet and swallow her whole.

Instead, his steady footsteps approached seconds before she felt his strong arms slip around her. In the next instant she found herself hoisted into the air and held against the hard wall of his chest.

She kept her lashes lowered, unable to look at him. Whereas before she anticipated his presence, now she lay rigid in his arms, wishing only to evade his company. At the same time his strength left her feeling weak and flustered.

"I can walk," she insisted, despite knowing she couldn't.

"Don't be ridiculous."

He carried her down the narrow corridor to the entrance of the small chamber and set her on her feet. She pulled the edges of his robe tightly together under her throat in self-conscious unease, still unable to look at him.

"Do you wish me to wai—"

"No!" she hurried to say before he could finish and whirled away through the entrance, thankful when she heard his footsteps swiftly retreat into the distance.

She tended to necessity quickly, but lingered at the edge of the chamber until her legs could barely hold her yet she felt certain he'd gone. She'd taken no more than a few awkward steps, when he reappeared in the entrance.

Resigned, she watched his approach.

This time no words passed between them as he carefully picked her up and carried her back to bed. He came to a stop beside it. Her embarrassment for him to catch her in the awkward situation had lessened to a degree, but still she couldn't meet his eyes.

"You're trembling." His voice came low, almost gentle. "Do you fear me?"

"Of course not. I'm only cold." She had removed her stockings earlier and the stones had chilled the soles of her feet, but that wasn't what really made her shiver. Nor would she admit it was due to the heat of his skin that warmed every point of contact where her body touched his …

"Christine …"

"Tell me." She looked at him at last. "Tell me what you wouldn't say before."

He released a weary sigh. "Tomorrow."

He laid her down in the plush bedding with extreme tenderness, as if she were breakable, and pulled the coverlet over her, up to her neck. In light of his sudden consideration, she could almost forgive him for his remote treatment of the entire day.

"When you no longer need the tonic and can again think clearly I will tell you," he said. "What I have to relate, you will need to be coherent to understand."

"_Promise _you'll tell me?" She hated that her words had begun to slur. She could barely keep her eyes open.

A wry smile tilted his lips. "Yes. Did you take another dose of the tonic?"

She nodded groggily against the pillow.

"I told you to take it only when I give it to you. Must I take it away?"

"Must you treat me like a child?"

His brow lifted in curious surprise at her clipped answer. "I merely do not wish you to become confused under its potency and take too much."

Instantly she felt bad for snapping at him. She supposed her disposition could also use improvement. Lowering her eyes, she barely nodded her thanks.

He straightened to his full height.

"Erik?" She spoke quickly, not wanting him to go yet.

He turned to look at her.

"Why is your shell a bed and a bird?"

"What?" His features slackened in stunned confusion, and she realized then what she'd said.

"Your bed. A seashell ... a bird … why?" Her words came lethargic. Drat the strong tonic and what it did to her.

He seemed amused. "Someday, perhaps, I will tell you."

"Not now?" she pouted.

"No, not now."

"Will you say _nothing_ to me?" She yawned, with just enough strength to slip her hand up to cover her mouth with her fingertips.

"Yes, Christine … sleep."

His calm smile seemed oddly sad before she closed heavy eyelids, unable to keep them open any longer. The last fleeting memory before deep slumber overtook her was the whisper-soft touch of his fingers running along her cheek.

.

**X**

**.**

Christine awoke to the most beautiful music. Without opening her eyes, she smiled dreamily as his haunting aria seeped richly into her senses. Oh, how she had missed hearing him play and sing! She took such pleasure in his expertise and her spirit soared with his stirring voice as she blissfully listened from the comfort of her Angel's bed.

Tomorrow she must leave his home and return above ground. She wished she didn't have to go, but of course she couldn't stay. Or, was it tomorrow already …?

How strange that she rested five levels beneath the earth, where there was no sun or moon or stars. Yet the moment she heard the resonant timbre of his dark lyrical voice and heard the masterful strains of his captivating music, she floated higher than when she stood on the opera house rooftop, able to touch the heavens.

What thrilling hold did he possess over her? What mesmeric power that enabled him to reach so deeply into her senses, as if controlling them? She didn't understand it, she couldn't explain it, but never did she wish to lose it. It had become a part of her, ever since she was a child.

The music continued, its sweet enchantment along with the effects of the mind-numbing potion lulling her back into deep slumber, taking her to a place where she floated amidst the clouds …

The next time she awakened, he had exchanged the mystique of his pipe organ for the poignant strains of his violin.

This time she opened her eyes, noticing he'd left one candle flickering near the entrance of his bedchamber, its pale light enough to reassure without disturbing her slumber. She wondered if he composed another concerto or worked further on his Don Juan masterpiece.

The memory of their duet encouraged the recent memory of their kiss and she clutched one of the pillows close with a sudden strange breathlessness. Indeed, the tantalizing music he now played brought those two momentous events and all manner of scandalous thoughts to mind. She had no idea how much time passed as she laid there, her body almost feverish with a strange tingling … longing. But when the music ended she felt both saddened at the abrupt silence and relieved as her heart calmed its rapid pace.

She heard him move about for some time afterward, the rustling of papers and thumps of objects being moved and coming from different areas of the main room making her wonder what task he engaged in. Perhaps he cleaned what earlier he'd scattered. She found her mind picturing him at work, his form lithe and tall and trim … which led her wandering down the intriguing path of their long association, taking her to her debut night and their wondrous meeting when she first took his hand and he brought her through the mirror door ...

The most heavenly aroma tantalized her senses, and her stomach lurched in its desire to be filled, as he had fed the deepest pockets of her soul.

Erik's tread on the stone staircase leading to the bedchamber made Christine sit up in expectation. Suddenly filling the entrance, the sight of him she'd been envisioning fairly took her breath away.

He came forward, setting a plate on the table by her bed, then took the candle already lit and touched its wick to a nearby candelabrum of four to shed more light, though the effect remained pleasantly subdued.

With shock, she eyed the meal he brought her of _Coq au vin, _one of her favorite seasoned dishes of chicken, lardons, mushrooms, carrots, celery, and onions cooked in a thick flavorful sauce rich with wine and brandy.

She blinked and looked up at him. "You made this?" Before he had given her apples, cheese, and bread. She had not expected so elaborate a meal.

He chuckled at her amazement. "Do you see a chef lurking in the passageway?"

His music seemed to have improved his temperament and she smiled with relief, also feeling more at ease, especially now that he'd joined her.

"There are numerous skills I've needed to learn to dwell in my solitary existence," he went on to explain. "Madame brings the provisions I need from the surplus in the kitchens but she does not stay to prepare them. She has no such skills."

"But how did _you_ learn?"

"I was fortunate that the opera house cook wrote down his creations in a book that mysteriously … went missing." He gave a careless little magician's wave of his long, graceful fingers as he said the last.

Christine grinned, certain by the cavalier tilt to Erik's lips that the lost book was one of many stacked on his shelves. She took a bite of the aromatic dish. Her eyes rounded in pleasure. "It's very good. Better than Pierre's." Eagerly she tasted more.

"Merci." He inclined his head in gratitude and watched her eat, his eyes sparkling in amusement.

She felt relieved that he no longer seemed angry. When he'd been so furious with her, his eyes had blazed a stormy green. Later, when he kissed her so passionately, they had darkened to polished obsidian, until almost the entirety of green had disappeared, something she'd never seen them do before. But this evening, they glowed as clear as pure jade.

"Will you not dine with me?" she asked hopefully.

"I dined earlier, while you were sleeping. How does your head feel?"

She touched it. "Only a little sore. At least I no longer feel as if I had one too many glasses of wine with dinner and then was forced to perform a _tours cha__în__és d__éboul__és_." The series of continuous twirls made her dizzy even without wine.

He thinned his mouth in disapproval at her light remark, and she assumed he recalled her nocturnal trek to find him. She set down her fork, regarding him just as somberly.

"Erik, if I had not come to you, would you have returned to me?"

"No."

"Never?" she whispered, helpless tears of shock clouding her eyes.

"I couldn't assume the risk."

She shook her head in hurt disbelief. "_What_ risk?"

His mesmerizing eyes regarded hers with steady resolve.

"If I would have come to you, Christine, if I would have dared, I would have taken you. And I would have never let you go."

.

**xXx**

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**A/N: Don't look away now, another chapter is on the way ... and this one promises to be quite ... **

***wickedly smiles ...**


	12. Our Games of Make Believe are at an End

**A/N: A big thanks to those who've taken the time to jot down a review ****– your encouragement has really helped! It sometimes takes blood, sweat, and tears (no joke) to try to compose a story that will be enjoyed.**

**Please note, from this point on, the story begins to take on the M rating ...**

* * *

**Our Games of Make Believe Are at an End**

**XII**

.

The Phantom watched her lips part in shock. Her chest rose and fell a little faster.

"Never?" Her query came, a breathless wisp of air.

He hadn't meant to tell her like this, had wished to wait until the day of her return to the theater. But the die had been cast and he pushed blindly forward.

"Never. I would have made you mine, Christine. Completely. This was not the first occasion I had planned to do so. I told you of my elaborate plot of vengeance for the opera. What I did not tell you was that I would have abducted you and kept you here with me. Forever, as my captive."

She stared at him a long moment, unflinching, the expression in her wide, luminous eyes difficult to read. "What stopped you?" Her words had gained strength but still came barely above a whisper.

"The spirits' visitation. They showed me events. Horrible, tragic events." He winced with the memory, still so fresh, and glanced down at her small, pale hands now stationary against the blanket. Slowly he sat on the bed and reached for one of her hands, tentatively covering it with his own, knowing what he would say would shock her, likely terrify her. She didn't pull away from him or his touch, which encouraged and surprised him after his blunt admission. At last he lifted his eyes to hers and spoke the thing he most feared.

"I saw your death, Christine."

Her eyes grew even wider, her face lost all color, but she said nothing.

"And I was to blame. I had bound you in chains of control to me during our time together, here, at the opera house. You died, never able to escape those bonds to me, while having the boy's child –"

"**_Raoul's _**_child?_" she uttered in stunned disbelief.

He couldn't help but feel a rush of satisfaction at the abject horror in her voice. "Yes, Christine. My obsession to make you mine pushed you into his arms, running from me in fear of all I'd done. Yet never able to break free of the chains I held over you due to our long association." He looked away from the confusion in her huge eyes. "I have determined that will never happen. Now you see why I could not again come to you."

"No, I don't see. By what cause should _any_ of it happen? I don't belong to Raoul. I never will." When he didn't respond, she insisted, "You changed all of what might have happened with your decision to abandon your plans for Il Muto, did you not? That's when you told me it began. In this strange nightmare world you visited."

He nodded, his eyes helplessly drawn to her once more, lured to her beauty. "In the future shadows of Il Muto I killed Monsieur Buquet. That is when it all began. Your fear of me, of what I'd done."

She appeared overwhelmed, but shook her head as if coming to a swift conclusion. "But Il Muto has premiered and Joseph Buquet _isn't_ dead. You didn't kill him, Mon Ange. So why are you still anxious for the outcome of our future — the true future? Not the one of shadows that doesn't exist."

He decided to tell her. "In the shadows foretold to me, you achieved a daring I've never known you to possess. I have seen the same in these past weeks, since the night you came to me and insisted I remain your teacher. With each day, this bold new nature steadily increases. Do you not see, Christine?" He shook his head, his heart leaden with the knowledge. "Those shadows of your boldness _have come to pass_, ever since I allowed the shackles of my influence to continue to hold you here. In light of that, _how _can I be certain the other shadows will not take place, if I allow this bond I created between us to persist? I cannot take that risk. I **_must_** set you free."

"Set me _free?_" She regarded him with incredulity, her gaze then growing steady as she pulled herself up to sit straighter. "Only someone in a prison would wish to be set free, Erik. If I acted with boldness it was because you constantly distanced yourself from my company in every way conceivable. The night you first brought me here, you captured my soul with your music and my heart with your presence. It wasn't shackles that held me against my will, as you seem to think. Or ... perhaps it was ..."

She smiled wistfully, her face undergoing a change as it softened and seemed to glow. "Invisible chains that bound me to you, but not _against_ my will. You showed me how wondrous our life together could be; I had never experienced anything like that night. Then I … I pulled away your mask. And you grew detached, becoming only my teacher again. I _was_ confused, but I knew what I wanted, what you offered me. And … and I had hoped if I was patient, one day you might do so again."

He could scarcely draw breath. "You fainted in horror when you saw the gown," he whispered. "After you returned my mask, you refused my hand."

She drew her brows together in slight confusion and shook her head. "I fainted when I saw _myself_ in the wedding gown – but certainly not with horror. In my mind the doll ceased to exist and I saw a mirror image looking back at me – I was overwhelmed. And I didn't take your hand or immediately rise to my feet because you said we must return and I ... I didn't wish to go." Her lashes swept over her cheeks shyly before she again lifted her eyes to him. "Could you really not tell? I wanted to stay with you, to somehow make matters right between us again and reclaim the happiness of the night before. But I was afraid to speak and upset you further. You were so cold and distant toward me after I gave you back your mask."

At the extent of her solemn revelations, wonders he never dreamed might transpire, he could only gape in stunned disbelief.

Breathless moments elapsed as they stared at one another in dawning realization.

She set the plate on the coverlet and leaned toward him, covering his hand with her other one.

"_Kiss me, Erik,_" she implored softly. Her face tinged with rose in girlish embarrassment but her eyes shone steady with womanly demand. "Prove to me that this is real and I'm not imagining it … that you are here with me … _that_ _you are real_ …"

It baffled his mind that she struggled with the same fear of living inside a dream. But, while her quiet request echoed the plea of his wildly beating heart, he nevertheless resisted.

"I've not yet finished with what needs to be said." He swallowed hard. "I would have abducted you ..."

"I'm troubled that you felt you must go to such great lengths to have me, but am relieved to know you still wanted me, and I think that hasn't changed. Despite all you've said. The future shadows are irrelevant. They haven't come to pass. They never will."

"But the past, itself, cannot be erased. The past that has been lived –"

"No, don't tell me more. Not now." She whispered the last as she moved closer. In tentative exploration her unsteady hands slid up his shirt to grip his shoulders and her gaze lowered to his parted mouth. "Only kiss me …"

"Christine …" He groaned her name on a plea, drawing back in half-hearted retreat. Every fiber of his body screamed to relive the enthralling sensation of taking her in his arms, but still he feared the shadowy future.

"Please, Erik …" Her whisper trembled, as if she feared his rejection. "I _need to know_ this is no dream …"

His mind reeled in a haze of awed disbelief that his Angel now begged for what he'd always desired, despite all he'd told her, despite the monster he was. And he could no longer withstand her innocent allure. Awkwardly he lowered his head to hers and paused, giving her one last chance to draw back...

She closed her eyes and leaned in to him.

The moment his lips faintly descended on her upturned ones, she mewled the softest of sighs, a sweet warm breath inside his mouth – unleashing a tempest of mad longing inside him. His hands, shaking from pent-up emotion, firmly cradled her face, like velvet against his skin. He did what came instinctively; the intense need to learn her lips as she earnestly sought to know his, the force that guided him.

Surrendering to his hunger for her, he kissed her repeatedly, until they both struggled for breath, though he could happily die in such blissful suffocation. With gentler intent, he brushed his mouth over hers once more in parting and at a sudden wicked urge that taunted, grazed her full lower lip between his teeth, nibbling the soft flesh as he pulled away, gentling any sting with his tongue.

Her body violently quivered and she moaned as if in anguish. Digging her fingers into his shoulder, her other hand clutching the back of his head, she surged forward and brought her mouth hard against his again.

His senses spinning in a vortex of raw emotion, Erik pressed his fingers against the ridges of her spine, crushing her to him. His robe she still wore had come undone and the press of her full curves against the heat of his own trembling body made him realize with a hot wave of shock that she wore nothing beneath the bed gown.

Christine moaned in blissful need. She felt as if she might weep for joy as Erik's heated kisses scorched her skin and inflamed her senses. _At last!_ _At last!_ His questing hands captured both her body and soul, and she clung to him, now knowing for certain her injury had _nothing_ to do with her swoon, the night he first kissed her ...

Desire burned inhibition away as their tongues danced around each other, coaxing, demanding. An empty ache spread deep inside Christine, a chasm of thirst that wouldn't be quenched and somehow she knew only Erik could fill.

His lips left hers to press against her jaw, to nibble at the side of her neck and tentatively he sucked in the flesh there, as if wanting to taste her. She clung frantically to him, wishing to crawl inside him, trembling to feel the solid heat of his chest where it pressed against hers, with only the single layer of her gown as a barrier. She wanted to remove that barrier, to feel his skin against hers, and knew she should be scandalized, as innocent as she was. But all modesty turned to ash, swirling away as refuse in the blaze of their passion and she ached to be nearer to him still. To her Angel … her Phantom … her Teacher … her …

"Erik ..."

His name escaped her lips in a throaty whisper of longing, and he captured her lingering breath with another urgent kiss. From a distance, she heard the crash of plate and utensils hit stone as he swept them from the bed. His arm like a band of steel securing her back, he lowered her to the plush coverlet, never taking his mouth from hers until long moments after her head sank into the pillow.

His lips forged a tingling course down her throat along her collarbone to her shoulder. He savored her succulent skin, anywhere and everywhere his mouth could explore above the gown's loose neckline, his actions growing more decisive as his desire for her burned hotter and he gained more confidence.

She arched against him with a need she couldn't define, a rich relentless warmth that spread low to her belly, demanding more. This time no impersonal glove blocked the heat of his touch that singed her flesh through the bed gown. His hand trembled as it followed the material over the contours of her thigh, sliding to her hip and up her long waist. Their chests heaved against each other, their breathing becoming more labored, and Christine held fast to him wanting more, so much more, though vague as to what ...

His long fingers brushed over the swell of her breast and the peak that hardened further at his touch. She whimpered softly from the surge of hot, lustful pleasure and he growled low in desire, kneading her flesh as she squirmed beneath him. The warmth intensified, pooling to the secret womanly place between her legs. Aching to touch him, she clutched handfuls of his shirt away from the back of his trousers, until her palms pressed flat against the hot skin of his lower back.

He groaned her name low against her ear, his fingers spreading over her damp skin, edging the neckline of her gown away, as he moved his long body partly over her. The strong evidence of his desire came immense and shocking as his leg slipped between hers that had unconsciously parted. She gasped at the unfamiliar hardness against her thigh, her body instinctively going rigid.

At her sudden withdrawal, Erik pulled back to look at her. Anxiety and uncertainty filled her dazed eyes, momentarily confusing him. At the same time, he realized that had she not reacted he never would have stopped. In bitter remorse to think of what he'd almost done to her, he began to pull away, though the ache to claim her remained relentless and he clenched the coverlet on either side of her body to prevent himself from ripping away her gown and ravaging all the joys of her flesh. Her hands tightened on his back.

"Why did you stop?" she panted.

"We cannot do this, Christine."

"But, I was only …" She nibbled at her lip he had just done the same to, rosy, swollen, and glistening from his kisses. "It's all new to me … and it, it frightened me … Only for a moment ... I don't want to stop, Erik …"

Her glowing eyes, darkened with the glazed look he'd seen before (and now knew had nothing to do with pain), beseeched him and battered at the feeble restraint he desperately tried to suppress. He frantically reminded himself of why they should not continue. Madame only stated what he already knew. Had known from the beginning. Heedless of that truth, he couldn't take Christine like a mere trollop, like the perverse managers and drunken stagehands took the chorus girls. Like the vicious shah exploited his harem. Christine was special. She was his Angel, an innocent. She deserved much more than this …

Gently he pulled the rest of the way from her and sat up, putting distance between them. Her sweet face glowed in confusion as she immediately rose to follow, but before she could again wrap her arms around his neck he caught them and shook his head in warning, then slid his hands to enclose around hers. They trembled as much as his did.

"Do you know where this would have taken us, Mon Ange?" he asked when he felt he could speak.

"I have heard your song. I sang it with you." A darker flush colored her dewy skin. "Past the point of no return."

"And do you know the full extent of what that entails?" His voice came husky.

"I have heard the chorus girls talk. I-I know something of it."

Her words faltered, and he knew she possessed only a glimmer of such knowledge.

"One day …" His voice was gruff, his emotions in pitiless turmoil. He closed his eyes and squeezed her hands. "One day I hope you will let me take you far past that point, Christine. But this is not that day."

Her lips parted in bashful wonder, her eyes shone bright from their passion, and her curls hung in wild disarray over her loosened bed gown he had pulled free of one shoulder – he felt hard-pressed to remember exactly why he must leave this bed.

Before he gave in to the urge to do something they might both later regret, he stroked her jaw once in parting and stood. He ignored the broken dishes, needing immediate distance to collect himself before he could return and clean the mess.

Somehow he managed to descend the stairs outside the bedchamber without his shaky legs folding beneath him. His ears rang, his senses swam. He felt dizzy, disbelieving, of all that had occurred. It was inconceivable … beyond incredible … she wanted him … despite all he'd told her …

She WANTED him!

_Despite all she knew about him __… _

_She desired HIS touch__! To SHARE in HIS music of the night!_

To make it THEIR music of the night …

Her initial kiss to him had not been a reckless fluke, a moment of sacrificial pity or a fleeting impulse later regretted, as he'd begun to convince himself. It had been the bright culmination of all his hopes, once diminished.

And that changed everything.

The Phantom realized he'd gone too far past a different point, that of telling her of his grisly crimes in Persia. He could no longer speak of that wretched episode of his life. Not now. Not ever. After all they'd shared, after she, with her pure, sweet devotion, had touched him to the core of his contemptible soul, he could never bear to lose her. Could never say the words that would ensure her flight, and hoped she would never discover the truth: that her protecting angel was a murdering devil, to be loathed, hunted and feared.

By her own admission, her chains, coveted though she might think them, _did_ belong to him. Would ALWAYS belong to him. To tell her the truth now might destroy them both with the outcome of those deadly words …

And he could never take that risk.

**xXx**

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**A/N: Well, the moment has finally arrived - the misunderstandings that went back to Phantom Christmas Carol have at last been cleared up: Christine realizes why Erik created distance and Erik finally knows the truth, but does he know all of it? (heh heh) We already know she doesn't (*angelic smile) So now it LOOKS as if things are finally smooth sailing ... ah, but looks can be deceiving ... **

**Please let me know what you thought ****… :)**


	13. Say You Want Me, Now and Always

**A/N: Thank you to all who reviewed! You guys are wonderful! I loved reading over your comments, and laughed at many of them! :) It makes me very happy to know that you're enjoying this story ****… About this chapter - it might seem a little fast, but I really do know what I'm doing. ;-) (so she tells herself****…)**

**And now****…**

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**Say You Want Me, Now and Always ****…**

**XIII**

.

The remainder of her visit passed all too quickly.

With the many candles he had lit, his hideout didn't seem so dark, and with Erik near, it never felt dreary. There lingered a hint of mystery, of excitement to be secreted alone with him far beneath the earth, with no one having knowledge of her whereabouts. Except for Madame, of course, but thankfully, other than her tongue-lashing after Christine's accident, she never appeared again to interfere.

Christine was sorry to bid farewell to Erik's home, though she told herself she would visit again, since their lessons must resume. And certainly, their relationship had altered … into what, she didn't know.

After their … she didn't know what to call it, though it certainly was much more than a kiss! Such discoveries with Erik had awakened her to more than she'd ever dreamed possible, had ever known _existed_. It still left her weak to think of those close moments, of his fierce passion for her and hers for him. But afterward he again became almost … remote. And she grew shy and nervous as the untried girl she was, the searing memory of their newfound intimacy an ever-present reminder – whenever they did both happen to glance one another's way and their eyes then met.

Christine could not help but look at him – once her Angel, always her teacher, and now … her lover? And with Erik – why did he glance at her so often then just as quickly look away? Did not his parting words to her once he ended their embrace make clear his awed expectancy of such feelings now shared – no longer being the desolate fear of old desires unrequited? Did he not wish to take their relationship further? He had implied it.

Oh, if only she could know what he was thinking! If only she could think of something, _anything_ suitable to say to break through this wretched new distance perversely brought about by an all too brief encounter that brought them closer than any moment they had yet lived …

At least, despite his novel return to awkwardness, he chose not to ignore her again. He even inhabited the same room with her on occasion and treated her with wary consideration, as if he still wasn't sure what to believe or what feelings to trust.

Christine understood his hesitance in that regard, for she felt the same. He had not touched her again, had not ventured to move more than a few feet near the bed, and she was a miserable conflict of confusion.

With faint relief she valued his slim distance, the feelings he had awakened inside too strange and shocking and frightening in their intensity. With strong regret, she wished he would now span that miserable breach he'd erected, since once experienced, she now ached for his touch and the recurrence of those feelings he had aroused.

She wished to stay …

She wished to go …

Though she did not fear.

She could never fear this creative, sensitive, exciting man who was once only her Angel and maestro. Perhaps, if there was any fear to be had it was within herself. In his presence she found herself saying and doing the most shameless and shocking things, and apart from him she acted reckless in her desire to be reunited with him again. He thought her bold new daring a mirror of foretold shadows to a ghostly future?

As they journeyed to the mirror door, she almost laughed, but stifled the sound.

In hearing his wretched account of her death and seeing what it cost him to say the words, her heart had gone out to him, her desire to console him stronger than any burgeoning dread. At first his admission _had_ terrified her, his entire experience in the spirit world so bizarre, so fantastic, that she didn't doubt his claim that he lived through all of it. Only something so terrifying could have altered his plans so drastically, to the point that he did the complete opposite of his desires – his action of "setting her free" testimony to that. Once he told her the reason for his distance of past weeks, Christine firmly discarded any possible occurrence of her demise. What that spirit had shown Erik could _never_ come to pass – she would see to that! Marry _Raoul?_ She couldn't conceive such an event. And to think, all this time Erik assumed she had been _horrified_ when she'd seen the wedding gown he had made for her!

She giggled nervously, unable to quench it this time, disrupting the silence of the tomblike corridor through which he now led her. He glanced over his shoulder, his visible brow lifted in question. She shrugged a bit self-consciously but didn't explain.

Perhaps it was because she had grown accustomed to the path from the fifth cellar to the mirror door; perhaps it was because they'd at last reconciled, no matter the temporary new awkwardness they currently struggled with; or perhaps because the future offered a glimmer of hope where it never had – the walk to the world above didn't oppress her. She still disliked the darkness and creatures that came with it, more so after her frightening experience of three nights ago, but with Erik near, she sensed no manifestation, if they were present. Her hand in his glove was a physical reminder of his continual protection, even if he did feel so far away. Realizing that within moments they would again part, again creating distance between them, all earlier doubts scattered to reveal one potent certainty:

She did not wish him to go. Did not wish to leave his side!

She felt suddenly apprehensive and desperate to try and resolve whatever had happened between them, if only she could determine what it was ... or perhaps … perhaps he still didn't fully understand. Her eyes opened wide at the new possibility.

She was so infantile when it came to matters of the heart and naïve at baring her feelings. Numerous times she had gone over her words before and after their last embrace, trying to find a logical conclusion for the return of his detached manner.

He opened the latch to the mirror and pulled it aside, allowing her to walk through. She did so and pivoted, pulling him by his gloved hand to join her.

"Someone may enter," he said, tensing as if to draw back.

"Everyone will be rising and soon gathering for breakfast. No one comes here this early." She hesitated, uncertain of what to say but determined not to let him leave. "Will you come for me tonight?"

"No, Christine, not tonight."

"But -"

Her hold on his glove remaining firm, he settled the lit torch in a holder on the corridor's rock wall and allowed her to pull him through. "I want you to take another day to rest. Tomorrow we shall resume your lessons."

"Then at twilight I'll be waiting for you … only … only hold me a moment, Mon Ange – since I'll not see you until tomorrow evening. Will you grant me that one request?"

He stood in wary shock, unmoving. She couldn't bear the thought that they had come so far only to discover they'd not come far at all – and she closed the scant distance between them.

Timidly, she wrapped her arms around his slim waist and pressed her head against his firm shoulder, feeling his heart beat, unsteady but strong against her. Her great inner conflicts faded when at last he embraced her, at first as hesitant as she'd been, then his arms pressed against her back tightly, and a little sigh of happiness escaped her lips. Wrapped within his cape in the haven of his arms, she felt protected and cherished.

Often, in the past, she confided to him her deepest and most personal thoughts when she thought him an angel. Now, in her need to make him understand, she realized it was time he knew the truth that lay hidden behind such disclosures. Though deceptions and make-believe could be entertaining as a light diversion every once in awhile, Christine felt weary of their lengthy span throughout the course of her life and resolved that no further secrets would remain between them. Hoping she wasn't making another dreadful mistake, hoping at last to make him comprehend the extent of her heart, she began to speak of its hidden mysteries she had secreted deep within its chambers.

"This is what I dreamed of, even before you made my soul soar when you offered me your music of the night," she admitted in a shy whisper.

His body went rigid against her, but she didn't let go, didn't dare look up into his eyes, afraid of what she might find there but knowing she could no longer refrain from hiding the truth. Grateful his hold around her didn't falter, she pressed her cheek against his linen shirt warmed by his body, breathing in the familiar scent of him, and gained the courage to continue, to disclose the entirety of her secret she had told no one else:

"You may have pretended to be no more than my Angel, and you shouldn't have deceived me; one day you must tell me why. But I was so thankful to discover I desired a man and not a true being from heaven that I forgave you instantly. The shame I felt was immense. I tried to curb such feelings when I thought of you. But it became … impossible." She noted how his heartbeats quickened against her bodice and cautiously went on. "You would sing such beautiful music into my mind, night after night … You were to me a comfort, a friend. Even before you became my teacher. Then I grew into a woman, and the feelings I had for you … matured."

Her cheeks went hot with the memory of how often she longed to see him, to touch him, to be with him…how his rich, seductive voice floating through the walls had not only caressed her soul but reached beyond that, quickening her breath and her heart. How it did still …

"Do you know why I went so often to the chapel to pray? You thought it was so I could feel near to my father. And at first it was. But later …" She took a deep, steadying breath. "I went there to light candles, to seek absolution, knowing I was wicked to dwell on such forbidden thoughts of you. Each time I shared my dreams when we spoke, I was afraid you would know I spoke of you. I couldn't bring myself to admit the extent of my transgressions, thinking you an angel, _my_ angel, afraid you would want nothing more to do with me if you knew what a wretched girl I truly was. I couldn't stop thinking of you or wanting you – however much I tried – even hoping you might come out of hiding and become – real to me." She gave a choked little laugh, unconsciously digging her fingers into his waistcoat as if afraid he might suddenly vanish. "Then, on that night – to see you in the mirror and take your hand – to touch you and learn you _were _real – flesh and blood – _a man_ … I was overwhelmed. And when you sang to me of your dreams for us and your Music of the Night, I loved you even more –"

His muscles jumped beneath her though he remained fixed, as if turned to a solid block of stone. Christine also tensed, fearing she'd said too much. Or perhaps – and she trembled at the thought – she shouldn't have spoken at all.

She had hoped, been _certain_ he felt the same depth of affection for her. The drawings, the songs, the wedding gown, the wistful manner in which she would often catch him stare at her during lessons, long before their first kiss, when he would then abruptly avert his gaze. And then – later – those breathless moments in his arms … surely he wouldn't have responded with such passion if he didn't share her feelings?

Yes, she first challenged him, later begged for his kiss, but on the second occasion he had gone far beyond what little she asked … or… perhaps …

Perhaps he now thought her terribly wicked and depraved to hear she helplessly loved him, _desired_ him, when she thought him an angel, with no concept that he was a man …

She pulled back in question, anxiously looking into his startled eyes, praying to see what she needed there. He remained silent, the maskless side of his face pale, almost as white as the leather covering his defect. His breaths were rapid, shallow. Was it shock that froze him, concern or, God help her – pity?

The long desired closeness suddenly felt a trap, and she backed away from him, her eyes unfocused with tears and growing wider with mounting horror. She shook her head in distress, sure she had now ruined everything … _everything _…

"Christine," he whispered miserably.

The sound of the door's handle jiggled, startling them both.

"Drat," she heard Meg mutter as the door began to swing open.

**x**

Christine could no longer bear his hurtful lack of response, now ashamed and remorseful for having divulged her dreadful secret, and she welcomed the intrusion.

Whirling around she dashed the tears from her eyes and hurried to bar her friend's entrance to the room. Within seconds the door swung open halfway at the same time Meg straightened, having picked up a lint brush from the floor. She carried a costume in her arms. Christine blocked her entrance.

"Christine! I didn't know you'd returned. Maman said you went to visit relations." Meg tried to look past her but Christine took a small step sideways. "Who were you talking to? I heard voices."

"No one. That is, myself."

"Really?" Clearly she disbelieved her. "Who are you hiding behind closed doors, mon ami? The Vicomte?" Meg again peered curiously beyond her shoulder, this time pushing past to step inside.

Christine felt a little thrill of fear that her furtive meetings with Erik would now be uncovered, thankful it was Meg and not one of the other dancers who'd caught her, or worse, La Carlotta. Had she endured the misfortune of any of those women seeing her and Erik alone together, the entire opera house would be buzzing of her secret tryst with the Phantom of the Opera come nightfall. Only Meg knew the Phantom was her teacher, but for her to see them together at daybreak implied a great deal more than the clandestine lessons, which Erik also didn't wish anyone to discover.

"I can explain," Christine quickly said to Meg while turning to look at Erik.

The room stood empty of all but herself and her friend. The mirror door was closed.

Christine blinked in stunned disappointment. Mere _seconds_ had elapsed. How had he left so quickly?

"Explain what?" Meg's brows gathered in suspicion.

"Nothing," she said, distracted, then thought better of her reply. "That is, I can explain why I'm here."

"You certainly are acting strange today. Why should you need an excuse to visit your own dressing room?" Meg tilted her head to the side in curious regard. "Did you have a nice time visiting relations?"

"What?" Christine blinked then recognized the lie Madame must have told to cover for her disappearance.  
"Oh, yes. Lovely."

"I thought you had no family."

"Distant cousins." Christine shrugged, looking back to the mirror. "In town for a visit. They invited me to stay with them."

"I must say, I'm amazed that the managers allowed you to take the time off, but I suppose since the new opera isn't yet underway that's why they allowed the reprieve. You'll be kept quite busy once the new show begins." She smiled uncertainly. "Are you excited to play the lead, Christine? It's a dream come true for you, is it not?"

Christine distantly nodded, in her mind reliving those last troublesome moments with Erik while trying to follow Meg's wandering line of light conversation.

"The stagehands have been busy with the set for days. I hear it's quite elaborate, so they needed to start early. A curtain will hide it until Il Muto is finished. Speaking of that horror – only two weeks left to bear the overbearing diva!" She gave a little roll of her eyes. "If La Carlotta says one more time that she hates her hat, I am well tempted to stuff it down her warbling throat."

Meg giggled, not seeming to notice Christine's silence, accompanied by vague smiles in reply and furtive glances toward the mirror.

"Isn't the dress lovely? Maman said it will be what you're to wear in the final scene. She asked me to bring it here. It isn't finished, of course, alterations will likely be made, but I think it will look lovely on you."

"Yes. Lovely …"

In confusion, Christine eyed the beautiful voile skirt of gold and the white peasant blouse. The costume seemed odd for a royal nightdress, but Meg did say it wasn't finished. Erik told her the final role she would play in the light farce, with its tragic touch, would be the conflicted princess awakening to discover her room full of arabesque clowns, all of whom had taunted her in her dream, with her prince being one of the clowns in disguise. She could well imagine Piangi as a clown, though Erik wasn't pleased with the current male lead and wanted another man to sing the role. She wished that _he_ would take the stage with her; their voices were a flawless blend. But the prince wasn't always in disguise and Erik would need a covering for his face throughout. Without it, he wouldn't be able to keep his defect hidden from the populace, as he had always done and still seemed determined to do.

Meg disappeared to hang the dress on the opposite side of the screen. "I suppose we should be off to eat and then to practice," she said as she emerged, setting the brush on the table. "Are you coming, Christine?"

"I—I think I need to reacquaint myself with things, now that I'm back. I'd also like to try on that costume, even unfinished. I'm curious to see how it will look." In truth, she needed time alone to calm her fractured feelings before facing the usual chaos of a day at the opera.

"Do you want help?"

"No, that's alright. The gown I'm wearing beneath my cape is gypsy in style and has a corset that laces in front." Ever since Erik's curt order when he'd first seen her in her bed gown, she had worn the same peasant costume on each occasion she visited his underground home.

"Hmm …" Meg regarded her oddly, and Christine realized her mistake to have mentioned such a gown, clearly an odd choice to wear to go visiting relations. "I … thought it quite strange when you left without word, and in the middle of the night …."

Christine didn't answer, again staring into the mirror.

"Stranger still – is that you didn't wake me and tell me you were leaving, that an emergency had arisen. I thought we shared everything, Christine." She frowned sadly. "You're not still cross about what happened at the Bal Masque, are you?"

An emergency? _That_ is what Madame had said? Christine then realized her explanation hadn't matched Madame's either. Guilt ate into her conscience for telling so many lies to her dearest friend.

"It all happened so quickly, Meg. And I do have a great deal to tell you…but I can't, not yet. When I can, I will."

"Does it involve him? Your … Angel?" She faltered over the word.

She felt the blush rise to her cheeks. "Please, Meg! I'll tell you everything. When I can."

"My, that does sound clandestine ..." Her eyes widened. "Christine! You're not having _an affair_ with him? You weren't with relations at all, were you –"

"_Meg!_" Heat flashed through her face at how close to the truth her friend was getting and she barked her name in an urgent need to stop her before she said too much.

"Oh, very well." Meg quirked her mouth in discontent. "But you must tell me soon. All of it, Christine. Promise?"

Christine nodded, her eyes darting to the mirror again.

Meg let out a sigh. "Before I go, I ..." Her face underwent a transformation; she looked ashamed and awkward as she lowered her head. "I want to apologize. I acted unkindly at the ball, and you were right to tell me so. When he walked up with you, and you introduced us, please don't be offended, but I felt … intimidated. Knowing who he really is, I mean. I didn't intend to injure your feelings. Or his. And perhaps …"

She glanced down briefly. "Perhaps I shouldn't have been so hasty to warn you away from your lessons with him either. Or to help the Vicomte gain those few moments to speak with you alone, as he asked of me. I'm still not certain your association with your teacher is … suitable for you. He did frighten La Carlotta at the ball, something she hasn't stopped haranguing the managers about. Though I doubt he intended to flay her with his sword as she claimed. I ask only that you be careful, Christine. I don't want to see you hurt, and your … Angel is very unpredictable."

"I'll be careful." Relieved that Meg had begun to relent about her association with Erik, Christine gave her first genuine smile since her friend had entered the room, even if it did come faint. The two hugged one another in forgiveness.

"I'm not very hungry this morning, but I'll be at practice."

Meg left with a relieved nod, and Christine closed the door, releasing a troubled sigh. Keeping her palm pressed to the panel, she bowed her head.

_Life_ had become unpredictable and oh so very complicated, not that she wasn't accustomed to the way things were. It was the life of the opera, and it was the life of her Angel, who had become to her both Phantom and man in one unforgettable night. Her thoughts went to him, as they so often did, and she recalled her hasty disclosure, certain now she'd said too much. If she didn't martyr social conventions due to her lack of understanding, she abolished prudence with her choice of rash words.

Oh, why had she spoken at all!

The room remained silent, hollow, and then the air shifted…the electricity that rendered her breathless …

And she knew he was there.

She could sense the heat of his body warm her back, though physically he did not touch her. Her heart quickened and she slowly lifted her head, her gaze fixed to the smooth panel painted with twining roses, afraid to move further, afraid to breathe lest he move away. Nothing happened, and for an unbearable moment she wondered if her forlorn heart had imagined his return.

She inhaled a soft trembling gasp as his black glove moved into sight, brushing past her skirts, turning the key in the lock, moving back in retreat …

Before she understood his intent, his hands rested atop the curve of her shoulders and she released her breath in a shuddering whisper of apprehension, of relief, of need…

Slowly, so slowly, he turned her to face him. His hands slid down a short distance to clasp her arms, the cool leather of his gloves brushing her sensitive skin. At last she gained the courage to look up ... into his eyes that now shone a brilliant emerald.

"Christine," he whispered. "I love you …"

Her lips parted in stunned elation to hear the hoarse but sincere words that wavered on his breath, as if he'd held them in for a very long time and feared to say them.

"And I want to share a life with you, always. _Our_ Music of the Night."

"Yes – _oh yes_ –" Before she could gasp out more, his lips took hers in a strong kiss that stirred Christine to the core of her soul, proving all of what he'd truly concealed within his complex, beautiful, renaissance heart.

Warmth, uncomplicated and gentle, coursed through her veins. His kiss grew softer but no less intense, and she never wanted the moment to end. Wanted to stay with him … like this … forever.

She whimpered in protest when his mouth lifted from hers and he stepped back. She lifted her hands to his jaw and moved forward, raising up on tiptoe to seek more of the same. He allowed it for several blissful seconds, before he grasped her wrists and pulled her hands away while lifting his head.

"Go, My Angel. You must go now before someone comes looking for you and hears us together, as your friend did."

"But why must our secret always remain a secret?" She wished for the pure delight of walking anywhere in the opera house on his arm, as she had done with him at the Bal Masque. "Especially now." Her lips softly tilted in an exultant smile.

He stared at her mouth a moment before returning his tender gaze to hers. "For now, it must. At this time your name should not be linked to this terrible Phantom who has caused so much trouble within the opera house."

She pouted at his mocking words. "Surely, that will only draw the crowds? To see the beloved singer of the notorious Phantom of the Opera perform on stage?" She didn't care about the crowds so much; she just wanted him with her in secret and in public and sought for a solution to experience both.

"Few within Paris know of my deeds outside these walls, Christine. To speak of ... us … will not gain you favor with the cast and crew, and I've seen how they treat you." His voice hardened in his displeasure with the others. "Now that the diva is _caterwauling_ her grievances, it is even more imperative that your name not be linked to mine."

"Did you really threaten to flay her?"

"Mon Ange! Would I suggest such a wicked thing?" A devilish twinkle lit his eyes. In the low flame of the torch behind him they had deepened to a mysterious jade.

Despite the weighty subject matter, Christine felt lighter than she had in months. "I don't believe you would do her bodily harm, no. But I _do_ believe you would allow her to think that you might. As you did with Monsieur Buquet and your nightly visit to him as a specter."

He chuckled, not bothering to deny either occasion, his mouth quirking at the memory. "I didn't say those exact words to her, no, but the opportunity did present itself to … speak with her, and I could never resist a challenge. I clearly underestimated her feminine sensibilities. Little did I know she would take a charitable word of … advice … so harshly."

"Charitable?" She lifted her brow in suspicion. "Advice? Just what did you say to her?"

He related the incident and she shook her head, both amused and exasperated with his mischief. "Oh, Erik. How are we ever to realize our dream of me singing your beautiful operas if you continually give the managers reason to end the truce between you?"

He sobered. Her words came blithe and teasing, but he recognized the truth in them and gave a short, reluctant nod.

"As much as it pains me to surrender such gratifying theatrics, for you I will dispense with the little tricks and hauntings of the O.G. Now you understand, at least in part, why it is vital that our association remains secret, even more so now that…we have…"

"Declared our love for one another," she finished shyly when he hesitated, and her breath caught at the sudden spark in his eyes. The look he gave her made her heart pound.

"Yes." His reply came in a whisper, as if he still fluctuated between dreams and reality. "I will not let my epic history as the Phantom harm your career now that our dreams for your triumph are at hand."

"I suppose you're right." She gave in, resigned, but couldn't prevent a small smile at hearing him agree to their love. "But please, Mon Ange, may I tell Meg about us? She is my oldest and dearest friend, and I feel horrible lying to her day after day."

"I heard her apology." His brow lifted, his manner grimly amused. "And her interrogation."

Christine smiled in embarrassment, recalling all Meg had said and asked. "She really is kind. She would never spread gossip about us, never tell a soul our secret. She wouldn't do anything to hurt me. She's never once breathed a word that the Phantom and my teacher are one and the same, ever since I confided in her during the Yuletide celebration."

"It means that much to you?"

She nodded, hopeful.

He cradled her chin with his gloved hand. "Then tell her." He pressed his lips to her forehead, drew back then hesitated, as though he might drop another sweet caress to her lips. Closing her eyes, she tilted her face up to him and heard his sudden indrawn breath.

"Go, Mon Bel Ange. Go now, before I cannot let you go." He let his hand fall away from her face.

His deep, emotional words sent a shiver of longing down her spine. She thought about asking him to let her stay with him, just this once, and parted her lips to suggest it. But he shook his head slightly as though anticipating her request.

Giving him a reluctant smile, she did as he asked. At the door, before she turned the key, she looked over her shoulder to watch as he strode through the mirror opening, his black cloak whipping and fluttering about his tall, masculine build in such a way it made her catch her breath.

As he closed the mirror, their eyes again met. His lips curled the slightest bit in that reckless smile that warmed her insides and almost had her running back into his arms. But she resisted, knowing he was right and the time had come that she must return to the others. Knowing if she did not make an appearance soon, someone would undoubtedly come looking for her.

She would give him anything, _anything_, to receive the full bounty of his trust. Her love had always been his to claim.

_And to think_ … she couldn't help another smile as she drifted through the door … _I truly have his love in return._

As she walked down the dimly lit corridor backstage, she had the sudden sense that she was being watched. Hoping he had changed his mind and returned for her, she expectantly looked over her shoulder, twirling around to greet him.

"Erik?"

Her soft eager query sounded unnaturally loud in the empty, still passage. All stood eerily silent, and her breathless anticipation swept away, replaced by a sudden shiver of apprehension. Had it been Erik there, after all that had transpired between them, she knew he would _not _have remained silent.

Feeling suddenly vulnerable, she hurried to the security of the brightly lit stage and the reassurance of losing herself among the rest of the chorus.

**xXx**

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Please review? :) Thank you...


	14. Daylight Dissoves into Darkness

**A/N: Thank you for all the many wonderful reviews! WOW! I'm sorry it took so long to get back in gear with this story. I hope you guys are still with me on this****…This chapter is longer than usual, so hopefully that will help make up for the delay. Work is behind me now, and I'm full speed ahead and on a blue-white streak in writing with all my phanphics ****– and soon will begin posting new ones, since different people prefer different "flavors" of E/C - and I pretty much like them all. lol ;-) (I'm one of those weird writers who thrives in writing several stories at a time. I think it comes from being a multi-tasker.) ****… a word of caution ****– a bit of vulgar language and adult situations in this chapter****…**

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**Daylight dissolves into darkness**

**XIV**

.

"**_Christine Daae!_**"

Madame's stern voice rapidly followed the rapping of her black walking stick and brought Christine to an abrupt halt in the staggered line of dancers. She looked at her instructor in confusion.

"To float like a swan is preferred. To float with your head in the clouds, so that you are not connected to this earth, is not."

"Madame?" she blinked, shaking her head in uncertainty.

"Your timing is off and you've not followed one instruction given."

"My apologies. I suppose I wasn't thinking clearly. I'll do better." Christine tried to look penitent but couldn't help the soft smile that tilted her lips. She had caught herself smiling on more than one occasion all throughout the previous day and this one as well, often when the situation didn't warrant it. Others in the chorus had noticed and looked at her strangely. Some of the girls frowned, whispering among themselves, but she didn't care. She felt too happy to let their little barbs affect her. Why shouldn't she smile, when life was so delightfully, gloriously beautiful to behold!

"See that you do." Madame sighed in weary resignation and clapped her hands. "That's enough for now. Felicity, Gillian, you will both remain and work on your appalling excuse for a _Pas de chat_ until you achieve the leap with feline grace and not give us the depiction of clumsy toads. The rest of you are dismissed for luncheon. Christine, I will see you in my office."

Christine shared a curious glance with Meg, who stood a short distance across the stage. Meg shrugged delicately, mouthing "Good luck," and Christine nodded, girding herself for a further scolding. She had yet to tell her dear friend her wonderful secret, unable to find a moment alone to do so, and had hoped to confide in her at the midday meal. But clearly that was not to be.

Stifling a disgruntled sigh, so Madame wouldn't have more to complain about, Christine followed her teacher to her small office. The cramped room was filled with mementos of her short-lived career as a prima ballerina. Faded flyers, curled at the edges, hung plastered on the walls from operas of days gone by. A pair of toe shoes, just as faded, sat on one corner of her desk. Christine stood, waiting for her instructor to speak, her eyes falling in curiosity to what she could see of a child's drawing beneath a theater program.

Madame moved around her desk and took a chair, motioning Christine to do the same. "How is your head feeling? Have you had any further occasions of dizziness?"

"No, I'm quite well. Thank you." Christine lifted her shoulders in a brief, puzzled shrug as she sat down. She had told her teacher earlier that she felt able to continue with the dance, also agreeing she would quit if such symptoms were to recur.

"Your time with the Maestro was satisfactory?"

"Oh, yes, quite!" The betraying stain of red she felt rise to her cheeks made her hurry to say, "He's a most courteous host."

"Really," Madame said with doubt, peering at her closely.

"Oh, yes. He makes the most delightful Coq au vin." Christine giggled softly, thinking of all his other delightful qualities he had shown her.

Madame sighed in weary impatience. "I'm not a simpleton, Christine. You have not ceased to smile and giggle since your return from his home. You behave like a silly, besotted schoolgirl. And I would know, has he made any … requests known to you?"

"Requests?"

"Of his position with regard to you."

"In his continued role as my teacher?" Christine did not fail to understand her meaning. Nor did she forget Madame's cutting words the night of the ball.

As if sensing her sudden wariness and the cause for it, Madame's countenance softened. "I'll not attempt to prevent your private meetings with him, if that is what you're concerned about. After the other night's absurd experience and your entirely reckless behavior I presume such an endeavor to be useless. You love him, don't you?"

Taken aback by her candor, Christine could only stare. Madame had never been so forthright about something so personal. But the relief and delight to at last share her feelings made Christine nod. "I have loved him ever since I understood what the word meant."

"And has he spoken to you with regard to his feelings?"

A smile warmed her face. "He asked me to share a life with him." Her eyes fell closed in dreamy remembrance. "He loves me, Madame. He told me so."

"Thank God for that!"

Her abrupt exclamation startled Christine. "Madame?"

"I have long known of his adoration for you, which I fear, was becoming quite the obsession. If it has not become so already. Living with a man like your Maestro will not be easy, child; it will be quite the opposite. You know of his pretense as the Opera Ghost, but he has many ghosts not of the opera that continue to torment him. Perhaps they always will ... Consider your decision very carefully, Christine. Take care in the answer you give him."

"I have already given him my answer. I told him I would share his life and his home."

The look she gave Christine was not pleased. "Not his present home?"

"Yes, of course. What other home would he have?"

Madame blew out her breath in frustration. "I had hoped …" She broke off, muttering words to herself, then regarded Christine. "And how do you mean to live such a life?"

Christine hadn't given the details much thought. "I suppose as I've been doing for weeks. I shall come above ground for lessons and to practice and, of course, to sing his beautiful operas, and in the evenings I shall go to him." Another flush of warmth washed through her at the thought of what that would entail, or at least what little knowledge she now possessed of it.

"You live within yet another fantasy, Christine. You cannot live beneath the earth, without air or daylight …"

She giggled. "The sun doesn't shine at night, and his home is filled with a good deal of air. You know that. You've been there."

Her instructor regarded her sternly. "Don't be impertinent."

Christine lowered her lashes but didn't feel the least bit sorry.

Madame sighed. "You simply cannot dwell in a cave. It's not beneficial to your health. I highly doubt the damp air will help your voice. I would think it might endanger it."

Christine drew her brows together. "I fail to understand why you would have such reservations. He doesn't appear ill for having lived his life down there for over two decades. Quite the contrary. And his voice is more beautiful than any I've ever heard, angelic even…" Otherwise he might not have been able to trick her so easily, and she resolved to get to the heart of the matter and learn the reasons for his pretense soon. "As to the rest, when I desire sun or fresh air there are no locks on the doors of the opera house to keep me inside. And if I desire an outing, he will take me."

"Take you? He hides his face from the world!"

Christine lowered her gaze to her lap, troubled. "Yes, but in time, I could help him to see there's no longer a need for that." She hesitated. "There is no need, is there, Madame?"

"You ask why he wears a mask?"

"I've seen his face without it." She didn't add that he'd again hidden himself from her view before she had a chance to see clearly, but did notice the surprise in Madame's eyes at her calm admission. "I was referring to his past."

"I know nothing of his life before he came here, nor of the three years that he disappeared before you came to the dormitories to live."

"He left the opera house? Why?" She had always assumed this was his home from the time he was a child. The revelation came as a shock.

Madame seemed to consider then shook her head. "That is something you must ask him."

Christine sighed and nodded.

"You are living in an idyllic dream, child." Madame's voice softened. "You allow your feelings for him to cloud your judgment. When the novelty wears thin, tell me, do you truly think you could be happy living in a cave five levels beneath the earth, where neither day or night can reach?"

Weary of the pointless conversation when she'd made her feelings plain and angry with her instructor for attempting to change her views, Christine rose from her chair. Her resolve now strengthened, she lifted her chin. Madame regarded her in curious surprise, but then, she'd never really understood. Christine never discussed her deepest personal feelings with anyone, not even Meg.

It was time to attempt an explanation.

"Erik is the other half of my soul, and where he is, I want to be also. When I'm with him, I don't notice things like the darkness or the cold like I do when he's not there. I feel _safe_ with him near. I now know him as a man, but he still is and always will be my angel. _Yes_, I wish he would come out of hiding and feel worthy to live in the world above. My heart bleeds for his pain!"

"Christine –"

"Don't you see, Madame? I want to be there for him, to love him as he always should have been loved. His soul and heart possess true beauty -his music, his art, his very person. And if to love him means I must live my life beneath the earth each night, then so be it! And if I must live there, day _and _night, for the _rest of my days_, I shall gladly do that too. Above ground, without him, is true death to me. _That_ is the life I cannot bear."

Madame regarded Christine in wonder. The giggling, besotted girl had disappeared, and a quiet woman of spirit, determination and strength stood in her place. She had never seen this side to Christine and recognized the earnest fight in her soul, recognized too, how deeply her feelings ran for the Maestro. Recognized it because little more than sixteen years ago she had just as earnestly defended her love for the man who would become her husband.

This spark in Christine she had not expected to see. It honed the sharp edge off her qualms though it didn't eliminate them completely. That wouldn't happen until Erik abandoned his dreary dungeon and came up into the world to live and breathe. The murder of the despicable gypsy vagabond happened twenty-two long years ago. No one in Paris would equate the scrawny abused boy who once killed for his freedom with the talented young maestro of today. Indeed, a true genius. Now if he would only use that sharp mind of his to construe the truth involving matters not related to music and the arts …

For the first time, Madame smiled.

"Perhaps … yes, perhaps, I was wrong. If anyone can ..." she searched for a word, "_domesticate_ a Phantom, I believe you are the one to do so." To tame him was asking too much. She sensed there would always exist within Erik a wildness tempered with a thin veneer of the urbane that made him dangerous on so many levels. She could understand Christine's attraction. At one time, briefly, she too had been fascinated with his presence. To a degree he still mesmerized her. But fascination had not led to love, as it clearly had with her headstrong ward.

"Madame?" Christine blinked, at a loss regarding her complete turnabout.

"Go and have your lunch while there's yet time. I have work to accomplish." She busied herself at her desk.

Christine remained fixed a moment, blinking in bemusement, then retraced her steps to the door.

"One final matter," Madame said, stopping her exit. "Soon you will leave the chorus to embellish on your operatic career and enter a new life, such as it is, with the man who will be your husband. My influence as your guardian and teacher naturally will draw to a close. However, if anything ever … troubles you, concerning what we've discussed, it is my hope that you would feel comfortable enough to come to me. For many years I have offered my assistance to the Maestro. I extend that same courtesy to you, as his wife."

Christine smiled at hearing the cherished title. It made her blood tingle, and in that moment she forgave her ballet teacher any previous slight. "Thank you, Madame. You are most kind."

"Pah! Go on with you. Or perhaps you have forgotten I witnessed your atrocious practice today. I expect better in tonight's performance. _If_ you continue to dance in the chorus, until your debut, then you will give your best at all times ..."

Christine suppressed a smile. Beneath the rigid exterior of her stern dance instructor she had often suspected there might exist the beating of a soft and gentle heart. Who else but a person of infinite compassion would take in a lost child – two lost children – in their time of need?

Perhaps, Madame truly did understand.

.

**xXx**

.

The Phantom moved swiftly and silently through the rafters of the opera house, away from any curious eyes, intent on finishing his business quickly.

The hour to meet Christine drew nearer, and his heart quickened at the thought of being reunited with her. It was still inconceivable to him how the events had altered so dramatically in one night ... she desired him, wanted to be with him! She _always _had! He still could not perceive such a phenomenon. But her shame-filled admission to secretly loving her Angel, to loving _him_, had at last loosened the ties around his heart and his tongue, once the shock dissipated enough that he _could_ speak.

And now, he could never conceive a life without her.

Spirits be damned – she loved him … loved HIM! Surely _she_ was the angel sent from above to the monster who dwelt deep below the cellars, though what he'd done to deserve such a gift he would never understand.

Christine _must _be right, he would not allow himself to think otherwise. The events in future shadows had transpired only with Joseph Buquet's death being the catalyst to such horrific tragedies. The lecher yet lived and breathed, so the future Erik had seen would never come to pass. And he would do all within his power to protect his innocent betrothed from any imminent evil, real or perceived.

His _betrothed _…

Upon realizing the enormity of once impossible thoughts that now seemed indeed possible, his heart jumped at the intimate title his mind supplied for her.

He reached one of many windows etched with turtledoves and rimming the top inside walls of the theater. The dome of the edifice ironically resembled heaven, its walls painted blue with white clouds, and golden harps circled the crystal tiers of the great chandelier—the closest to heaven he'd ever come and an ironic contrast to the hell of his dark chambers beneath the earth. But surely, now, even that could change? Now that he had his Angel? With her dwelling in his home, by his side, in his bed, life would never again be bleak.

God, was it true? Was this really happening to him?

A hot rush of longing surged through his blood at his recollection of Christine, soft and willing in his arms, and he worked to control his breathing. The present need to remain detached was of paramount importance. He could not afford to be distracted.

He pushed the pane and slipped through the opening, dropping down into the belfry that held the mechanisms controlling the chandelier. Glancing at the red rope and heavy chain, he grimaced to remember the shadows of the future, the screams of panic, the terrible fire, now appalled that he would have gone so far as to destroy what would always be _his_ opera house. For over two decades, long before the new managers arrived, it had been **_his_** home and playground, soon becoming **_his_** haunting grounds and place of business, **_his_** refuge of music, **_his_** opera. **His LIFE!** He had helped to shape and fashion it, had lived and breathed it, and no one had the right to take ownership away from him.

The previous managers had honored his requests in past years, though perhaps his notes had been a bit too ... persuasive. But his adamant suggestions had proven their excellence and brought in revenue. Then they hired the idiot Carlotta, whose warbling attempts at coloratura notes would make the hounds howl in pain, and he'd been furious, the O.G. surfacing and playing tricks in an attempt to force the stubborn diva to go. For all the troubles of the past, the other managers, Lefevre included, had not been such utter _fools_ as the two junk men who now played at operating the Opera Populaire.

He could never consider the opera house as belonging to another and certainly not to those men. Or to the _boy_, who called himself patron. He sneered, considering it ironic that in a twisted sense of parody, he likely had more legal claim to this theater than any of them realized. Soon, very soon, he would know for sure.

He hurried through another door, along a narrow corridor, and slid down a rope to a level beneath, taking him to a second corridor. At the wall, he clicked open the secret passage. Halfway to his destination, the sudden sight of the vile Buquet speaking with a stranger in a dimly lit, empty passage caused Erik to hesitate and blend back into the shadows. He knew everyone who lived within the opera house, as well as those faces of peddlers, deliverymen, and merchants who brought their goods. This man he had never before seen.

Short and stocky, his build was not graceful enough for the chorus. Wearing a workman's clothes, he was no member of the noblesse either, yet he wore authority like a shield. His beard was clipped short, his brows were thick, and his square face looked sharp and angular, like a rodent. Erik took careful note of details, emblazoning them in his memory, in the event he should need such information in the future. For now he had other business to attend. He waited until the two men parted ways, then continued on his course.

His summoned guest had already arrived and nervously looked around the dark chamber the Phantom had chosen for their meeting. As a general rule, he preferred Madame to attend to consorting with others, usually through his notes, but in this instance he must act alone. Even she did not suspect, and he had no intention of telling her his plans. She might take it upon herself to act without his knowledge as he'd witnessed in the present shadows the spirit had shown him. Even if those circumstances _had_ worked out for his and Christine's benefit, he disliked the idea of his aide acting on her own initiative in matters solely concerning him. He could not afford any mistakes with regard to this current situation.

As yet unobserved, the Phantom watched the newcomer through narrowed eyes. Had Firmin's lawyer not recommended him so highly through written correspondence, he would never have sent him a letter. His appearance alone was a disappointment. Wiry and tall, but shorter than Erik, the man's waistcoat was frayed, his trousers rumpled and worn, his hat from the previous decade. But then, Erik knew the folly of judging on appearance alone. Was that not a major factor for the reason he'd found it imperative to seek sanctuary in a home far beneath the floor on which he stood?

The man turned suddenly, his thin face going pale … and regarded the sight before him with absolute shock.

The Phantom approached, his cloak billowing out behind him, the white half mask seeming to glow on his face in the darkened room ringed with mirrors that made his image multiply, until numerous Phantoms surrounded the man. The old ballet practice room never was used any longer, since the floor had warped. Idiocy on behalf of the new management in their decision not to replace it and instead force the chorus to practice in the backstage wings. Perhaps had they ample room and usage of the barre, their dancing would not suffer so disgracefully. Now the room was used for storage purposes and rarely visited.

"Monsieur Lasalle," the Phantom stated, his voice no-nonsense.

"Oui." The detective trembled. Perhaps he, too, had heard the blend of genuine and imagined tales involving the elusive Opera Ghost. The thought pleased Erik that such history would provide the necessary intimidation and he would not have to resort to present means of mild coercion to induce his directives.

From within his cloak, he withdrew a thick envelope. "I have outlined what I desire in my letter. Inside are the details of the services I require. You will deliver all information to me, here. Leave your findings in writing and slip them through this crack in the paneling ..." With his gloved hand, he motioned to the split in the wall between lintel and paper.

"There ... you want me to put it _there_?" The man's eyes bugged beyond his spectacles as if he'd been asked to take part in a séance to rouse the dead and not simply shown where to drop off a letter. His clear spinelessness was beginning to wear Erik's patience to a thin, frayed cord.

"There is a problem with your hearing, monsieur?" he growled. "You do not feel competent enough to follow my instructions?"

"N-n-non. It is only that … it, it is most … unusual ... to conduct business in this manner."

"You will find that I am not your usual client."

The man's forehead beaded with sweat. "N-non. Non, of course not."

"One thousand francs are inside the envelope. You will receive another thousand if you retrieve all of the information for which I have asked and deliver it to me before this week is through."

"Ah-ah-ah-ah …" The man stuttered at the price, which was more than generous, and the timeline, which was considerably outrageous.

But the Phantom must know the truth before he could proceed with his greater plans, and he did not like to be kept waiting. From the appearance of his clothing and gaunt form, the detective had come into hard times. The Phantom had accrued much wealth from his stipend of twenty thousand francs per month, collecting the money from the managers for years, and did not mind padding the poor fool's pockets if it would ensure him the desired results.

"Let us hope your skills at investigative procedures are far more practiced than your attempts to communicate," the Phantom mused with a sardonic smile.

The detective at last snapped to attention. "I promise, monsieur, you will not be disappointed with my services."

"Let us hope not. I do not take disappointments well." The man shivered under his steady gaze. "We will not meet again."

The Phantom flicked his cloak back as he whirled around, again entering the shadows, leaving Detective Lasalle to gape after him.

He gave the man no further thought. With twilight soon approaching, he wished only to return to the dressing room and be reunited with his Christine.

.

**xXx**

.

Determined to find Meg, Christine hurried down the corridor to the dormitory they shared. Barbette, a member of the chorus, had told Christine that Meg mentioned she was going to their room before the afternoon practice. With all the interruptions the day held so far, Christine decided to take this opportunity to share her precious secret with her dearest friend. This may well be her last chance before nightfall.

She hesitated on the threshold of the dormitory, immediately spotting Meg with her head lowered and sitting on her legs in a kneeling position in front of one of eight cots the room held. Only it wasn't her cot. The cot belonged to Chantel, one of the most promiscuous members of the chorus, who fancied herself a leader among the girls and possessed one of the nastiest dispositions.

"Meg?" Christine whispered, but she didn't hear or turn.

Her ballet slippers making no noise on the stone floor, Christine quietly moved to join her friend. Standing behind her, she looked over Meg's bowed head to the open book on her lap. Heat flamed her face, her entire body, and she gasped aloud in stunned discomfiture.

"Meg!"

Meg slapped the book shut and whirled around, almost toppling over in her haste. "Christine! What are you doing sneaking up behind me?"

"I didn't sneak. I spoke, but you were too engrossed in, in … _that_." Christine darted a glance toward the door, certain they would be caught in the act at any moment. "Where did you get it? Is it yours?"

"Of course not!" Meg also darted a look behind her to the doorway. "Keep your voice down – do you want someone to hear and come in?"

"_Where did you get it?_" Christine insisted in a loud whisper, the penned drawing of a naked man and woman entwined in passionate embrace still vivid in her mind.

"It's Chantel's. I came to find the stockings she took from me. Mine went missing and she came up with a new pair the next day."

"But … _that's_ not stockings!" In her agitation, Christine stated the obvious. Thinking of Chantel's waspish attitude, Christine worried her friend might get caught.

"No, I found it under her cot, the stockings were on top. And, well …" Meg's eyes gleamed with wicked intent. "Have you never been curious to know those things we are forbidden to speak of? Maman certainly would never tell us should we brave the courage to ask. How else are we to know if we don't investigate for ourselves?"

Christine didn't ask her to clarify. Throughout the theater stood naked statuary of women; she knew what the human body of her gender looked like, since she, herself, was a woman. But she had never seen a man in a state of full undress, as the picture had shown … what parts it did show. Such brooding made her think of Erik and their recent embrace in his bed.

Nothing of true merit to garner Madame's disapproval had occurred, nothing for which she should be ashamed, but soon, she hoped, that would change. They had made their feelings known to one another, and though he never proposed a wedding, stating those exact words, she felt that must be the inevitable conclusion to her spending a lifetime with him and sharing in his Music of the Night. The mannequin carved in her image and wearing the wedding finery was testimony to that.

She didn't wish to experience future moments of intimacy with him unprepared. It was her foolish naïveté, once she felt the hard swelling between his hips press against her leg, that had led to the abrupt end of such pleasurable sensations he had birthed inside her. She never again wanted him to think of her as a frightened, pathetic child. Never wanted him to think of her as a child at all.

"What's inside it?" Christine sank to her knees beside her friend.

Meg gave her a conspiratorial smile and again opened the thick book.

Christine's eyes grew large, her heart pumping harder with each page Meg turned. Intricate pen and ink drawings filled the areas above the tiny text of the illicit picture book. They vividly displayed physical acts between couples, and she felt her face steam with embarrassed color, though she was just as eager as Meg to continue with the forbidden discovery. Some of what was revealed she had deduced, recalling her heated encounter with Erik. Some of the startling poses she gaped at, stunned to realize, and though she giggled self-consciously with Meg over their wicked find, her thoughts inadvertently transformed the lurid images on paper to vague fantasies of what awaited her with Erik. Despite the tawdriness of some of the operas they performed and the general atmosphere of decadence throughout the theater, Madame would _never_ have allowed such a scandalous book to be owned by a member of her ballet chorus. It must belong to one of the managers'— Christine wouldn't know how else Chantel could have gotten it; she'd heard the dancer slip from her bed late at night to visit someone for secret trysts.

"What's that?" Christine whispered, noticing loose leaf pages lay secreted at the back of the book. Eagerly she pulled the book closer and flipped to them.

The first one showed a charcoal sketch of a nude man and woman in violent embrace, similar to a drawing in the book, though the faces and hairstyles had been changed to resemble a stagehand and a seamstress who Christine had presumed met on the sly. Clearly Chantel was also an artist. She wondered if she was a voyeur too.

"_What the hell are you two doing near my cot?_"

Chantel's footsteps rapidly shuffled toward them, her voice low but livid with rage.

Meg blinked and scrambled around to face her, rising to her feet. Without thinking, Christine closed and picked up the book, holding it against her chest, and hurriedly did the same.

"We didn't mean any harm –"

Meg's explanation was cut off as the tall redhead dropped her gaze to what Christine held.

"**_You nosy little bitch!"_** Viciously she pulled the large book from her faint grasp. The corner edge caught Christine in the jaw. She gasped at the fiery pain that made her eyes water and her cheek sting and cupped the injured area with one hand. The loose sketches fluttered to the floor. She followed their advance there with her eyes.

"_You're nothing but a prying, wheedling little trollop,_" Chantel sneered, lowering her voice. "You think you can always get your way with your sickly sweet smiles, pretending to be the picture of all innocence – but likely you pull up your skirts like the rest of us and spread your legs to anyone who will secure you a better role. You certainly have no great talent to speak of to win you _the lead_. Who did you fuck to get it, Christine? The Vicomte? That's what they're all saying."

"Don't talk to her like that," Meg bit out. "It was my fault, not hers. I found the book. _Leave her be._"

"What are you_, her guardian?_" Chantel scoffed. "Can't the little porcelain doll speak for herself?" She whipped her spiteful gaze back to Christine. "So tell me, little diva, is that why you had to have your own private dressing room? So you could grant favors to the Vicomte to secure your new role? _Why won't you answer me?_"

"**I said leave her alone!**"

Christine couldn't answer if she wanted to. She felt numb all over, her heart weighted like stone. Their cross words blended into the background, a strange buzzing noise barely noticeable, as her eyes remained fixed on a sketch that lay face-up near her foot. It was all she could see, all she could concentrate on, the only thing that existed in a stark world that suddenly shifted and toppled and went very dark … She felt sick to her stomach, felt as if the blood might rush from her head and she might pass out.

"_Christine?_"

She barely noticed Meg's arm wrapping around her back, her other hand going to her shoulder. Meg must have followed her gaze because Christine heard her gasp with the same shock that traveled through her in painful little prickles.

"Come on, let's get out of here." Meg quickly turned her away from the appalling sight and to the door.

"Never touch my things again," Chantel's order followed them into the corridor. "Or you'll be sorry. **_One day you'll get yours, Christine Daae _****_– and that's the truth of it!_**"

"Don't pay heed to anything she said," Meg muttered, "She only said what she did because that's what she would do, tramp that she is …"

Christine remained silent, dazed, lost to all sound and feeling as her friend led her through the busy corridor and to the first empty alcove she could find. Grabbing her upper arms, Meg helped seat her on a bench there. She remained standing, eyeing her in concern.

"Christine, we have to go back soon or we'll risk being late again and Maman will be angry. Perhaps punish us with extra exercises or even exclude us from tonight's performance. Are you …" She hesitated. "Are you going to be all right?"

The inane words trembled within Christine's mind, breaking her stunned detachment. She let out a mangled sound between a laugh and a sob. "_All right?_ How can I be, Meg?" she whispered. "How can I be after seeing … _that?_"

The horrible image wouldn't go away, cruelly recreating inside her mind yet at odds with those things he'd told her. And she felt as if she might shatter to pieces inside from the sheer torment of her discovery.

The penned sketch, similar to one in the book, had revealed the frontal view of a trim, well built man standing with his legs a short distance apart, clearly naked save for the long cloak he wore and partly draped around a nude woman who knelt before him. Her face had been at his groin, her hands clinging to his bare muscled thighs. His hands had clutched the back of her head, while his head had been tilted slightly forward, his eyes closed, his mouth parted in dark pleasure.

The woman had Chantel's frizzed, shoulder-length, bushy hair.

The man wore a large mask on the right side of his face.

Feeling her stomach again churn with the wave of horror that ripped through her, Christine clapped a hand over her mouth, pushing Meg aside, and rushed from the room.

.

**xXx**

**.**

Erik arrived a few minutes early to the dressing room, eager to see his angelic betrothed. His endearment for her whispered sweetly in his mind, causing him to pause wistfully and lay his gloved hand against the panel of glass through which he had last seen her beautiful face.

Would he ever acknowledge what he once thought impossible as truly being achievable? Would his dreams at last come to completion and Christine willingly become his bride? Even yet the harsh voice of rationale mocked him. How could someone so pure and perfect desire someone so sullied and deformed?

Once again, he grimly reminded himself that by her admission she had not clearly seen the grotesque part of his countenance that he hid from the world. If circumstances were to unfold as he longed for, her continued ignorance in that regard would become unavoidable. No ... He could not allow that to happen, must not think beyond this present moment and create problems before they had a chance to exist. Though his gross abnormality was certainly more than a mere "problem" and he winced at the thought of her likely reaction were she to see it in full.

If he were the noble sort, he would reveal the cause of his bitter disgrace to her before they were wed and risk the likelihood of losing her forever. But he was no prince, and he certainly was no angel. His selfish desires to claim her encouraged him to keep the truth hidden, for as long as was physically tolerable, and somehow he must make _that_ evolve into forever. After all she had shared with him – her shy avowal of love, the sincere depth of her heart, the intimate warmth of her embrace – he could not bear to lose her now. He would do all he must to see to it that such a wretched day never dawned.

At last the door to the dressing room opened and he put his hand to the edge of the mirror door in expectation. He frowned when he saw the sole occupant who entered the room. Once she closed the door, he quickly slid the mirror on its track.

"Where is Christine?"

Madame Giry regarded him with an unflappable air of calm, though her eyes seemed a trifle concerned. "She is not well, Monsieur, and asked me to convey her regrets. She will not be joining you this evening."

Not joining him? He narrowed his eyes. Something was wrong. Christine was never sick a day in her life. A blow to the head certainly hadn't dulled her stubborn spirit or her clear desire to be with him. He knew her well enough that if she _were_ struggling with an infirmity, she would drag herself to the appointed spot to meet with him.

"What has happened?" he demanded between clenched teeth.

"Happened?" Madame lifted her brows. "Perhaps her extended stay in your dank and drafty dark dungeon has brought about this ailment. You cannot seriously expect her to live in that gloomy hovel with you once the two of you are wed." At his clear surprise, she nodded. "Yes, she told me. I would give you my blessing and offer my happiness on your behalf, but with such a prospect before her, I feel I should refrain and offer her my condolences instead."

"She was in fine health when she left my home," he growled.

"Was she? Then why does she lie abed now, complaining of a headache and refusing to speak to anyone?"

Her words gave him pause. Perhaps she hadn't fully recovered from her accident. Yet something still didn't seem right…

When she thought him her angel, she would rush to seek his presence and confide in him regarding anything that troubled her. Since she had learned he was mortal, that habit had not changed, and he could not conceive that she would refrain from coming to him now, no matter her condition. Yet to quarrel with Madame about the issue was pointless, since she seemed inclined only to harp on his living arrangements and blame them for Christine's condition.

Yes, his home was cold and damp – he did live by a lake for pity's sake! Still, his health had fared well for over a score of years, and Christine had seemed to thrive during her stay, given the circumstances.

"Very well." He turned with a flick of his cape. "I shall inquire after her at dawn tomorrow. Be here."

He did not wait for her response to the affirmative but whisked through the mirror door, shutting it firmly behind him and locking it. Once down in his lair, he couldn't shake the certainty that there was more Madame had not told him, perhaps what she herself failed to realize. Like Erik, Christine preferred to implement a strong reserve when it came to sharing her feelings with others in their theater world.

The path to Christine's dormitory he had not taken in months, but he knew the way through the utter darkness as easily as he knew every stone in his lair. Once he arrived at the part of the wall where her cot rested, he looked through the crack he'd made in the stones there, deliberating if he should sing into her mind or speak softly to her in greeting. Loud snores from one of the ballet rats offended his ears, making clear his choice, but Christine's bed lay disturbingly empty.

Puzzled for the brief span of no more than a moment, as long as it took him to discern just how troubled her heart must be, he hurried to the corridor leading to the serene chamber where they first met.

As he suspected the soft glow of candlelight dimly illuminated part of the stairwell winding down to the peaceful abode where she sought consolation. Silently, he closed and barred the door at the top of the stairs, the likelihood of anyone seeing him remote at this time of the evening, but he wished to take no chances.

His descent quiet, he took the stairs down and stood at the entrance, his relief great when he saw her. His eyes took in her huddled form in front of the tiers of candles, where she always knelt. With her back to him, she stared up at the angel in dark oils that graced the center arch.

He continued to gaze at her without speaking, without moving, able to tell by the defeated slope of her small shoulders that she battled with some hurtful grievance. As he watched, she brought her fingertips to her face and made a whisking motion of wiping tears away. The pitiful gesture wrenched his heart but before he could speak, she straightened her spine as if suddenly alerted to his presence, her gaze lowering to the area directly in front of her.

Slowly, as if fighting the desire but failing, she turned her head to look over her shoulder and steadily met his eyes.

The lit candles illuminated her face, and he gasped in dismay. Anger quickly replaced concern, and he moved swiftly toward her.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Oh, dear. Well, you knew more conflict would be imminent didn't you? Sometimes a smidgen, quick to resolve, sometimes a ton, taking a lot longer. And I was so nice to you guys with all the fluff I've been dishing out in the last chapters ... 0-:-)**

**If confused, just please stick with me and be patient ****… I really do know what I'm doing (most of the time. lol) **


	15. Touch Me, Trust Me

**I am sooo happy to know that some of you are still with me ****– and others have joined in! (yay!) Thank you for the reviews and for letting me know the interest is still there ****– blowing kisses your way. After reading them, I actually did remove a lot of caps and bolding in words for this chapter ****– not all though. I don't want to remove them completely, I don't think, but I'll try to cut down on my usage of them and even go back in past chapters and see where I probably overdid it. (cringe) I've seen this style used of getting across a building argument in other phanphics I've read, when it's just dialogue (no tags or text)- and I really liked it, so adapted it to my writing too, but I think I need practice at doing it in moderation. lol I'm also working harder to eliminate all vague pronouns. Problem is, I'm so close to my story(ies), I don't always notice when I do that. Drat. Oh, well****… anyway, I'm trying****… :)**

**And now ****… please look upward to the left of your screen and notice the "M" rating. This chapter is one of the reasons it's there. The cause for its presence will steadily build as this story progresses ****… (just a mild warning of major heat waves and firestorms ahead ****… in the midst of their winter. ;-) )**

* * *

**Touch Me, Trust Me**

**Chapter XV**

**xXx**

**.**

The Phantom stared down in horror at his beautiful fiancée. His thumb and fingers moved to clasp her chin and turn her face to the candlelight to better see the small bruise that covered the left side of her jaw near his slight hold. A faint red abrasion ran up to the bottom of her cheekbone.

"_Who did this to you?"_ He barely kept his tone civil, the rage that boiled within making him want to tear the ignoble fiend from limb to limb. "Was it the _insufferable Buquet? Or that irksome boy?"_

She shook her head, her expression desolate, her lashes clumped and wet with recent tears. "N-no. It was … an accident."

"An _accident_."

The Phantom dropped his hand to his side. He knew enough of so-called "accidents" from those he initiated to question the validity of hers. He studied her solemn upturned face, unable to tell if she was lying to protect the scoundrel from his certain wrath or if she spoke the truth and another matter upset her. He took in a slow breath to steady his frenetic emotions and reached down, clutching her by the upper arms to help her stand. "Come, the stones are too cold for that. You'll catch your death sitting on the floor."

She quivered within his grasp, her gaze fixed to his waistcoat. The moment she stood aright, she turned from him. She walked a few steps toward the stained glass window and stopped.

Mystified, he stared at her stiff back, remaining where she'd left him. "Christine, what troubles you?"

She shook her head the slightest bit as if she didn't want to speak of it, which only fueled his resolve to know more.

"Come now," he persuaded in a gentle voice and moved toward her. "Since when have you not been able to confide in your Angel?" He laid his gloved hand on her shoulder, surprised when she shrugged it off and whirled to face him.

Her eloquent eyes sparked in hurt defiance. "Are you, Erik? Are you truly _my Angel?_"

"What manner of question is that?"

"Have you always been _my Angel?_"

At a loss for words and perplexed by her angry use of them, he narrowed his eyes. "If you choose not to enlighten me as to the root of this arcane inquisition, how can I find it possible to give you a satisfactory response?"

"It is a simple query and deserves an honest reply. Are you **_only my Angel_**?"

Exasperated by her perplexing behavior, he felt his patience begin to wear to a frazzled cord. "What absurdity initiated this confrontation? You know I am no angel, Christine, and never have I been one. I am only a man." _A deformed and pathetic excuse for a man, but still, a man,_ he added the last in his mind in acerbic silence.

"Have there been others?" She retorted in a clipped voice.

"Others …? What '_others_'?"

"Besides me." She lifted her chin and moved a step toward him. "Have there been **_others_ **in the theater whom you have … been with?" She struggled to say the last as tears again filled her eyes. She blinked them away and averted her gaze sideways, to the ground.

Her line of questioning made no clear sense. He felt as frustrated with her infantile behavior as he was beginning to grow infuriated with her willful spirit.

"What **'_others_' **would I have kept company with, Christine? Forced to dwell in a cave far beneath the earth? Treated as an outcast because of my face? In all of these two decades, there was only Madame Giry I summoned to meet with me –"

Her tormented eyes flew to him, her mouth dropping open in horror. "You were with **_Madame Giry_**?"

"Of course. How else was I to have my wishes carried out but to meet with her in private when the need became imperative? I fail to understand why that should be of concern to you? You know she's my aide and assists me in whatever manner I require."

"OH!" Her eyes going round in dismay, she clapped her fingers to her lips and whirled around, again presenting him with her rigid back.

Utterly bewildered by her bizarre behavior, he resorted to becoming her Maestro. "Christine, get hold of yourself. You are acting childishly and behaving in a manner most inappropriate."

"INAPPROPRIATE?" A second time she whirled to face him. "What I fail to understand, **_Monsieur Phantom_**, is how you could have treated me with such cutting distance and harsh scorn for the farewell kiss that Raoul dropped to my lips. But you think nothing of receiving sexual favors from any woman who –"

**"WHAT?"**

Her face flamed rose-red in embarrassment but she held her ground, her eyes defying him to deny her claim. He stared at her as if he'd never before seen her, at last beginning to realize that they'd been holding two entirely different conversations, and very ill at ease when he realized how noticeably she had misconstrued his harmless remarks.

"Christine, sit down."

"I'd prefer to stand, thank you."

**"SIT DOWN!"**

She jumped a little at his brusque command, the deep timbre of his voice reverberating throughout the hollow room, and lifted her chin in high dudgeon as she clasped the edges of her nightdress. Lifting the hem a fraction, she gracefully and slowly sank to the bench beneath the stained glass window. She crossed her arms and waited, glaring at him.

It was then that he noticed _again_ she wore no wrapper, the soft candlelight outlining the slim silhouette of her legs through the diaphanous gown. Her rapid breathing from her outburst caused her high breasts to constrict against the ivory cloth that her arms pulled tight against her, bringing into focus her darker areolas and rigid nipples that poked against the thin material, as if pushing to be freed from their restraint with her every incensed breath.

He closed his eyes against the arousing sight she made. Dear God, she would be the death of him yet.

Looking into her burning eyes, he forced his focus to remain there and moved the short distance to stand before her. She tilted her face upward as he came nearer, keeping her eyes locked with his, then rebelliously dropped her focus to stare straight ahead once he came to a stop, the act causing her eyes to fall to his trousers. He wondered at the second sudden flush of high color that stained her cheekbones and the manner in which she swiftly looked askance.

"Christine, look at me."

She pulled at her bottom lip with her teeth, but not until he cupped the underside of her chin did she startle a look his way.

"I have no idea what you heard or _think_ you know, but I assure you most strongly I have had no relations with other women. In the past or in the present. There has only been you. There will only ever be you." It baffled him that she could think otherwise.

"But I saw the sketch!" As soon as the words rushed from her mouth, she pressed her lips together hard – her mouth a thin line as if she bit down on the inside of them to prevent further explanation – and glanced away again.

"What sketch, Christine?"

She gave a little shake of her head, refusing to answer.

The Phantom pivoted from her in frustration, pacing several steps forward, several steps back, uncertain of how to break through her stubborn, mule-headed manner. With her recent spiral into boldness, her assertive, fighting spirit had also augmented. Yet he was far from conquered, and if anyone knew how to stand his ground, it was the intractable Opera Ghost.

He flicked his cloak to the side with a snap and again moved to stand before her. Her posture was still rigid, her gaze remaining fixed on the candles. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Will you speak, Christine?"

No answer.

"If need be, we will remain here all night until I get at the truth of the matter. You're not leaving this chamber until you explain the reason for your bizarre behavior and tell me of this mysterious sketch!"

The silence thickened and crawled, suffocating in its length. After several minutes of this, she hissed through her teeth in aggravation then tried to dart off the bench to the right, but he moved just as swiftly to block her attempted escape, without touching her. Another pathetic try in the opposite direction awarded the same results. When a third time she failed, she at last realized he would give no quarter and sank back down, sulking, still not looking at him. He remained fixed, again not moving a muscle.

"A sketch of you," she said at last in curt reluctance. "And one of the ballet rats. I saw it."

"Where?"

"In the dormitory."

"Who showed it to you?"

"No one. I found it." Still she would not look at him.

"And what composed this sketch that gives you reason to doubt my integrity?" he said the last with a mocking bite. He was hardly honorable, but he would not be condemned for an act never committed.

"It …" She grew flustered again. "It doesn't matter."

**"_It matters to me!_** If I'm to be tried and convicted as you for my judge, at least do me the common courtesy of informing me of my crime."

"You were both … _n-naked_." Her last word came whisper-soft, her insolent childlike manner unexpectedly crumbling away into womanly despair. "She knelt in f-front of you, and you stood in front of her –"

"Enough." He sank beside her on the bench, grabbing hold of her hands that fidgeted in her lap, to still them. Putting a swift end to her words, he saw what it cost her to say them. He didn't need her to elaborate and felt a flush of livid embarrassment warm his face. "What makes you think it was me?" he asked much more quietly.

She turned fully to face him then, a frown marring the smooth skin between her brows. "The man wore only a cloak and mask, and only on one side of his face. The same side as you wear yours."

He clenched his teeth, his ire again rising. "Who **_dared_** to pen such a sketch?"

"I … don't know."

"Christine," he warned, "is that the truth?"

"No." Her chin lifted, her eyes steady with the return of her self-confidence. "But I won't have you seeking vengeance against her and putting an end to the truce you made with the managers. I know you too well to believe you would let the matter drop."

He sighed in frustration, reconciled to let it go. But only for the moment. "Is she the one who did that to your face?" He kept his voice soft, though he would like to throttle this unknown fool of a woman until she begged for mercy, and then kick her out of the theater door for the torment she had caused his Angel.

"It really was an accident. She was angry but with just cause. She grabbed the book from me and it knocked me in the jaw."

"What book?"

"I ..." She grew unsettled again. "It doesn't matter. I just want to know – why would she sketch something like that if it weren't true? _Why, Erik?_ And how did she know about your mask? It wasn't the one you wore to the ball."

"I don't know, Christine." He smoothed his gloved hand over her slim fingers, looking at them before lifting his eyes to hers. "But I assure you I did not partake in any corporal act that this depraved woman penned. Perhaps she did it to indulge in some sick, twisted fantasy, as many of the chorus is inclined to do. The lecher Buquet has spied me before during his intrusive haunts of the flies when he should have been at his post, though his accounts of my visage are entirely preposterous. With a gaping black hole in the midst of my face and possessing eyes that glow yellow in the night!" He scoffed at the ludicrous assessment. His defect was enough of a tale of horror without adding to it a layer of the absurd. "Perhaps, for once, he shared the truth, or perhaps she has spied me from afar, as well."

"Perhaps …"

The far-off quality of her manner made him tense with worry. "Will you put your faith in me, Christine, despite all else? Will you cast from your mind the deception you saw and believe in the truth I speak?"

She searched his eyes for a long moment. "You have always had my trust." She hesitated then pulled one of her hands from his to cup the maskless side of his face. "And you always will. Forgive me for doubting you, Mon Ange. It was just so … distressing to see."

Her warm touch and return to her endearment for him soothed his fractured emotions. "How can I lay blame when I have judged you for far less, as you have reminded me?"

She winced. "And I'm sorry for that too." She leaned in to him, pressing her lips to his, shocking him with her swift kiss. Her cheek awkwardly bumped against the bottom edge of his mask, and he heard her faint gasp of pain.

She pulled away to look at him, touching her fingertips to the cut on her smooth face. He put his hand to his mask and pressed against it to reassure himself, though it could not have moved.

They stared at one another at length before she quietly broke the silence.

"What makes it stay in place?"

"The mask?"

She nodded. "It has no strings to tie it."

"I use a paste I created from various plant ingredients."

Her eyes grew round. "You don't mean … you – you glue it _directly to your face?_"

He hesitated, feeling somewhat awkward in discussing what shielded the crux of his shame. "Yes, of course. It is the only way for a mask of this type to remain on my skin. No different than the bonding material used in theatrical performances to apply hair to the face. Only stronger, due to the weight of the mask and the need of prolonged wear." He grew ill at ease by her stunned silence. "The adhesive is made to last the entirety of the day, but it loses its potency as the hours wear on, and in the night it grows looser. I have to reapply it, as I did tonight, if I leave my lair. Or I exchange it for a different mask that ties."

As he spoke he noted how her face paled and her lips softly parted in horror. "And when you take it off?"

"I have a mixture I use to loosen the paste."

Moisture suddenly flooded her anguished eyes in a heartrending facsimile of minutes ago. Only sorrow composed her expression now, the anger long gone.

He took gentle hold of her arms, peering at her intently. "Christine …? What is the matter now?"

"I pulled _that_ mask away …" – her self-condemning words barely came to him on a trembling breath as her dark eyes fastened to the white porcelain mold – "…from your face …It … it was morning …"

He sobered. "Yes."

"You had just applied it? The paste, was it still wet?"

He didn't answer, his silence saying much, and her features crumbled.

"I-I didn't know. It-it must have caused you such pain."

His flesh had stung, the deformity raw where skin had peeled away in places, but it had been nothing compared to the agony his heart had borne to think he had forever lost any prospect of a future with her.

"That moment is behind us," he reassured. She barely nodded, the tears spilling over her lashes and onto her cheeks. The sight twisted his heart. "Come here."

Tugging on her hand, his other glove going to her waist, he pulled her toward him and onto his lap. She came to him unreservedly.

It felt wonderful to hold her again, her soft warmth pressed so close. He thought of those first evenings she had come to his lair for lessons and the distance he had forced between them, now calling himself ten times a fool for those lost moments... She relaxed against his chest, the slightest of smiles lifting her lips, her arm resting along his shoulder, her fingers at his neck. She moved them to lightly trace the smooth front of his mask in a caress. He could not prevent his instinctive flinch. Her smile disappeared and she sighed, dropping her hand back to his shoulder.

"Do you wear one all the time, even when you're alone?"

"Christine, I would rather not speak of this further. It is a necessary evil, but meek in comparison to what lies beneath. Let us leave it at that."

"You don't have to, you know."

He deeply sighed, realizing she would not give in so easily. "Don't have to what?"

"Wear it. Surely it cannot be comfortable to wear for so many hours, as you described to me. Even the one with the strings must chafe if worn too long, with no air against your skin. There is no reason you should suffer so."

He took in a swift breath, his wariness growing with her words. The masks did chafe, the one he now wore even to the point of making his skin raw and bringing blood in the more tender areas if he left it on too long or dislodged it. And it had bled then, when she pulled it away.

"Mon Ange, you don't have to wear it with me."

"You will never see me without it."

Her expressive eyes widened in incredulity. "Surely you cannot expect to keep wearing it _all_ the time we are together?"

"I will do what I must."

"But that's just it, Erik. You don't have to –"

"Enough, Christine. The matter is closed."

Her eyes again grew very sad. "I wish _you_ would put your faith in _me_."

Her soft, desolate words, an echo of what he had just asked of her, pierced him to the marrow of his soul. He could not bear to see her distressed again and made a decision he had been struggling with for days.

x

Briefly closing his eyes, he took in a deep, nervous breath and began, "You asked me earlier if I was always your Angel."

Christine parted her mouth in surprise, her manner growing intent with the knowledge that he was about to share something of great import.

"Not long after your father told Madame Giry and I about your earnest childhood dream, that you desired the Angel of Music to come to be with you, I made the decision to become that Angel."

Her eyes widened in amazement. "How did you know my father?"

"I spoke with him twice, in a meeting arranged by Madame. He and Madame's husband were close friends when he lived at the theater. Once Monsieur Giry died, not long after your mother, your father and Madame grew as close as two friends could become without the romantic involvements. The first time he spoke of you, he expressed his desire for you to come live at the theater under Madame's tutelage. But he said you had a voice to rival the cherubim, even at such a young age, and wished for you to sing. Then I heard you, when he brought you during one of his visits to Madame. You did not see me, but I followed you to the chapel, where I heard your earnest prayer for the Angel of Music to come visit you. You sang a little hymn afterward, and your sweet voice touched my heart. The last time your father came to the theater, he was ill, knowing he would die. He asked me to train you, to watch over you. He knew of my ability to remain hidden within the shadows and asked me to give you protection."

She stared at him, open-mouthed, and he shifted, uncomfortable to go on, but aware the time had come to tell her what she had longed to understand.

"He never knew that I would become your Angel. I never shared my decision with him; indeed, it did not occur to me to trick you into thinking I was an actual angel until after his death months later. You were so young, so frightened and wary of everyone and everything. So much different than the animated child I had seen once before. I reasoned I could only gain your trust by becoming the angel for which you had dreamed. From the moment I spoke to you in the chapel, you reverted into the happy child you'd been. Your eyes would light up whenever I spoke or sang to you. I watched you through a crack in the wall." He vaguely motioned to the center archway with the angel painted in oils.

Her eyes wide with that same childlike, wondering awe, she followed his motion to the angel, then slowly looked back at him, her lips parted softly in recollection.

"As the weeks progressed, you became more than just my charge. I began to feel a deep fondness for you, Christine, even then. The years passed, and you grew out of girlhood and into womanhood. By that time, my heart was hopelessly bound to yours. If you left me, I knew it would break from the loss and I would wither and die. So I told you that you were not to give your attention to any potential suitors. I used the excuse of your music, telling you that you must concentrate solely on your voice, but my underlying purpose was self-seeking. I did not want to risk losing you before I'd had a chance to claim you. Yet I had reached an impasse of my own creation. You thought me a true angel, and I knew I must quit the ruse if I wished to entice you to become mine."

She blinked, trying to take it all in. "But you kept up the ruse for_ so long!_" Her voice came whisper-soft in astonishment. "Why did you not tell me that you were a man before the night of my opening debut? You gave those instructions for me to refrain from all personal involvement on my fifteenth birthday. That was almost two years ago!"

"I feared if I did I would lose you then, as well," he said simply, though she would never understand what it cost him to say the words, to make his heart vulnerable to her, even now.

She shook her head a little in confusion. He inhaled another tense breath.

"You knew me as your Angel, and I had grown comfortable with the deception, however dissatisfying the prospect, since it meant I could not touch you and hold you as I longed to do." He lifted his hand to faintly trace her cheek. "I could not bear for you to see me as I am – no longer your Guardian Angel who dwelled in heavenly realms, but a feared beast who had long ago been cast into a pit of outer darkness. Once you knew, I feared you would run from me. As a child you might have done so. After you became a woman, I was uncertain if our long association was enough to keep you with me. And then the Vicomte came," his voice grew harder, "a man with whom you shared a past as children. How could I compete with that? With someone so damnably handsome and well admired? I knew that whatever fate would bring, the time had come to reveal my true nature or resign myself to die from the missed opportunity."

"You kept up the pretense because you … you loved me all this time and were afraid to lose me?" she whispered.

He nodded somberly. "And every time I force myself to look in a mirror, _every time, Christine_, I fear the prospect afresh. How could an angel like you love a beast that lives in a cave when you could have a prince who lives in a palace? That is why you will never see the blasphemy of my face, which belongs to no angel, but to a devil in disguise!" He could not tell her that his former actions in Persia also warranted him that title. It was enough that she must bear this.

She continued to stare at him in transfixed wonder, as if trying to soak in all he told her. At last she moved, her fingertips this time faintly brushing along his mouth. "My dear Erik … in answer, I will tell you a story. Months before he died, Father told it to me. He told it to me often. _La belle et la b__ête_ – do you know it?"

He shook his head in astonishment, his heart turning over at the tenderness of her endearment and the unexpectedness of her touch.

She dropped her hand to clasp the side of his neck lightly, draping her arm across his front. Holding him thus, she tilted her head to rest against his, looking at the flickering candlelight while he stared into the darkness ahead.

"There was once a beautiful girl named Belle," she began, "one of twelve children. Her father, a wealthy merchant, came into hard times and his family suffered greatly. His children, save for Belle, were selfish and arrogant, spoiled from a life of luxury. Belle was different, considered an outcast by her siblings, but kind and loving, the only ray of sunshine in her father's miserable life. He heard that one of his ships survived, but to his distress found it to be untrue. Most of the goods were ruined, the creditors taking what was left. In despair, he made the journey home and was caught in a blizzard. He found a castle, which stood empty, but a meal magically appeared for him and he stayed the night. When he woke, the storm had passed and he spotted the most beautiful rose growing on the grounds, such as he'd never seen before. The sweetness of it reminded him of Belle, who, unlike his other children, had asked nothing from him but his good health and safe return. But upon picking the rose, a horrible beast appeared, demanding that he give him one of his daughters or die for his crime of thievery. For the palace belonged to the beast, you see."

Erik narrowed his eyes warily, nonetheless curious where she was taking her tale.

"When their father spoke of his encounter, Belle insisted on taking the punishment, since it was because of her he took the rose. Her father at last agreed, and she went to live at the beast's palace. She was fed and entertained, the beast never doing anything to harm her, though at first he remained absent and never appeared to her. The days passed into weeks, then months. In her dreams, she was warned by a strange woman not to be deceived by appearances. Later the woman told her that her father was ill. The beast permitted her return to her father's home, and she stayed there, tending to him. Later she had a dream that the beast was ill. She found him dying in a cave, resigned to die without her. Heartbroken, she expressed her love for him, having learned that many men are far more beastly than her beast, who was kind and gentle to her, and he rallied, asking her to marry him. She agreed, wanting no one but him, and her beast was suddenly changed into a prince, the spell a witch put on him broken."

She took a deep, wistful breath. "But the queen didn't wish the prince to marry a lowly merchant's daughter. The prince vowed that he would rather be a beast again and have his sweet Belle, than to marry any other girl in the kingdom. Belle then learned the woman in her dreams was a fairy, who stepped forward and told them that Belle was really the daughter of the fairy's sister, who was also the Queen of the Isle, and as a baby Belle was hidden away with the merchant for her own safety from another fairy, a jealous one ..."

Erik shook his head in weary disdain. "It is only a tale of magic, Christine. A world of pretense, which you had said you no longer wish any part of."

She lifted her head to look into his eyes. "Only if that meant we would continue to hide the truth of our feelings for each other behind such stories. That is no longer the case – and such tales do have merit. From them we can discern what is real."

"You wish for what is real? The _reality_ is that the curse of my face can never be broken. I will never turn into a prince, and you will not discover that you are the long-lost daughter of a fairy's royal sister." A hint of wry amusement touched his words.

Her fingers moved lower to trace over his heart, which skipped a beat at her loving gesture. "You think yourself a beast, this opera house your palace. But I think of you as my prince, My Princely Phantom Angel." She smiled shyly. "And I want no other man to fill that place. I would much rather spend a lifetime with you in a cave than to spend one day above ground on the arm of any other suitor."

Her attitude of misery had entirely dissolved, happiness now shining in her eyes still moist from her earlier tears.

"No more pretenses, my love, but only and especially when truth is so much more important," she whispered. "Thank you for confiding in me the truth of why you pretended to be my Angel. Though such an extended pretense was entirely unnecessary. The _truth_ is you have always had my heart."

She pressed her lips gently to his, again astonishing him with the suddenness of her act, the sweetness of her words. Her mouth was soft and full, her kiss uncomplicated and warm. She pulled away slowly to look deep into his eyes …

And a spark of longing ignited between them, surging to breathless life.

They came together as one as his lips crushed against hers. Grabbing a handful of her long curls, he tilted her head while moving his in the opposite direction, gaining complete access to the honeyed ambrosia of her mouth.

His tongue tangled with her eager one, and she whimpered, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. He smoothed his gloved hand down her arm, then to her hip, grasping it and pulling her closer, frustrated that his leather-encased hand could not feel her form to his satisfaction, could not feel her warmth. Never taking his mouth from hers, he rid himself of his gloves, letting them drop to the ground. He again clutched her nape, reveling in the silkiness of her curls, while he smoothed his other hand down her leg until his fingertips brushed her bare calf where her gown had ridden up. Her skin was so incredibly soft and he ached to touch more of it. His hand made a slow caress, bringing the gown slowly up with him, past the inside of her knee, and she gasped into his mouth, her breath warm.

He continued to ravage her mouth with his tongue, his fingers tracing upward, until he stopped in startling, mind-numbing realization. Clamping his hand to her slender thigh, he pulled away from her mouth in shock to look into her drowsy-lidded eyes, now glassy with desire.

"_Christine,_ _wh __–_" his words came out a shaky breath. "_Where_ _are your undergarments?_"

"I don't wear them to sleep in at night." Her face flushed at her shy whispered admission, but surely not as warm as the lightning bolt of heat that flashed through his entire midsection. He hardened further at the thought of how close he had come to touching her … _there_ … how far he still could go …

Fighting the battle he had almost lost when she was in his home, unable to move his hand from the periphery of sweet temptation, he closed his eyes and lowered his head – a mistake – for when he again opened them her succulent breasts enticed him, only inches away. High and firm, pressing wickedly against her gown. Full and ripe, begging for his attentions. The moonlight now streamed in on her through the panes of light colored glass, bringing into sharp relief any detail Erik might have missed before. Stifling a groan of pure need, he dropped his gaze again, his blurring vision landing at the apex of her slim thighs, where at this short distance, he could just discern a darker triangle through the ivory linen.

His entire body trembled with barely held restraint. Blast it all, he was entirely flesh and blood mortal, _NO_ part of him angel! How much could one man take? _She might as well be sitting on his lap_ _entirely naked!_ And yet, he could not move to push her away. Could not break their connection.

God, he wanted her! But he could not yet have her …

Christine apparently had no idea of the war he waged within himself. She gently cradled his head, lifting his gaze to hers, and again bent to press her mouth to his parted lips.

The groan building inside his throat came to tortured life and his fingers dug hard into her thigh to keep them from traveling higher. She gasped short in surprised pain, then let out a long sigh of stunned pleasure when his other hand moved as of its own volition to just below the globe of one breast. He could feel the weight of it against the spread of his thumb and fingers then realized with a start his hand had moved higher to embrace her.

"Erik," she panted against his mouth, her word a plea he could not fight. Fully spreading his hand he covered her breast, her nipple hard against his palm. Again he moved, brushing his thumb over the rigid peak. His tight hold with his other hand gentled and he began to massage her thigh.

She moaned in soft agony, unconsciously parting her legs more and plunging her tongue into his mouth. He kissed her long and deep, beginning to gently knead her breast. Her hands, which had at some point traveled to the tops of his shoulders, clutched him hard. He broke their kiss to press his mouth to her chin, moving down her throat to her collarbone, continuing a downward course and kissing her body through the material of the nightdress. His lips made contact with her nipple and she gasped sharply, tightening her hold.

Beyond hesitation, he brought his lips around the stiff peak, grazing it between teeth and tongue, testing her reaction. With a staggered breath, she threw her head back, pushing her chest forward. He took the unspoken invitation and suckled her gently through the gown.

Christine clung, trembling, to her Phantom Angel, struggling to stay upright, feeling as if she were being drawn into a bath of fire. The long desired feel of his mouth at her breast was strange, exciting, erotic, sending tingles of heat and moisture to the center of her core … achingly close to where his fingers massaged the bare skin of her inner thigh in wide gentle circles. She wished the neckline of her gown weren't so near to her throat so that she could feel his soft lips and hot tongue directly on her aroused flesh, wished also that he would move his hand higher, and cared not that her mind should yield so readily to such shameless and wicked thoughts. Earlier, when she softly parted her legs at his touch, she had felt the bulge straining at his trousers but this time did not withdraw in shock when the hard evidence of his desire pressed against the outside of her thigh.

_She wanted him __…_

He lifted his mouth from her breast, the soaked material now transparent, revealing part of her snowy mound that bore an erect rosy nipple, and he groaned at the alluring sight. He wanted to strip her of her bed gown, pin her to the bench seat and make love to her right there. He settled for pushing the flat of his hand to her shoulder blades and bringing her other breast to his mouth swiftly, eliciting from her another sharp, startled gasp.

Christine was fast being sucked into a vortex of her dark Angel's making, and another rush of moisture dampened her secret curls. With each suckle he gave, she felt herself growing wetter inside. Instinctively she wriggled her hips in need and took in a shuddering breath when she felt his warm hand trace higher. She had seen the pictures to know what would happen next.

She should stop him …

But she had no intention of doing so …

God, how she wanted this to happen!

A sweet fragrance emanated from her body, one Erik had experienced during their initial embrace of what seemed a lifetime of days ago. He inhaled deeply of her scent, the need to touch her in intimate discovery long beyond his power to control.

The moment his trembling fingertips brushed her damp curls, grazing her dripping center, they both drew in shaky gasps of stunned pleasure.

From above, the stairwell door rattled, someone clearly trying to get in.

Erik's hand instantly stilled, his hand against the inside of her thigh, his fingertips barely touching her. He pulled his mouth away from her breast, and their eyes met in shocked confusion.

"_Who could that be?_" she whispered distantly, her words a bare thread, hungry for him to continue, to forget the intruder ...

He did not respond, did not move, the current that bound them close electrifying in the stillness. All fell silent, only their rapid breathing discernible in the small, private chamber. Urgently they continued to stare into each others' eyes … motionless … lost in the explosive silence. She gave a sobbing little gasp as he again moved his hand, closer, his fingertips gently pressing into her folds. He stroked her ever so slightly and her eyelids fluttered shut at the ecstasy of his touch.

His intent gaze never strayed from her flushed face, awed by her intense reaction to him, awed by the silky, wet feel of her. He pulled in a deep, shattering breath, knowing he should stop … knowing he could not.

The rattling of the doors came again, this time with a vengeance, sounding if they might fly off their hinges.

Her eyes flew open, meeting his. "_Erik __…?_" she whispered, this time in fear.

He barely nodded, loath to retreat but resigned to do so. Removing his hand from her warm body, he slid his fingers down her leg without haste in his desire to let them linger upon her skin, and pulled his hand from beneath her gown. Gently, he helped her off his lap onto the bench seat, aware that she trembled as much as he did from their intimate embrace.

"Stay here," he rasped, his mind caught in a whirlpool of longing, his body faring no better.

He waited until she gave a slight nod before he somehow managed to move away from her and toward the entrance. Turning right, he hurried down the little used passage that held within it a secret door to a tunnel that would give him a clear view of what went on directly outside the corridor branching to the chapel. Upon reaching the wall and looking through the crack in the stones, the passageway appeared dark, empty and quiet, as if no mortal had ever trodden over the cold flagstones.

Had the enraged ghost of Monsieur Daae disrupted their passionate interlude by shaking the chapel doors to save his daughter's virtue?

Months before, The Phantom would have considered such a farcical explanation the result of too much bad wine. Now, he wouldn't blink an eye to see the ghostly Monsieur's spectral form sweep toward him in warning. Four spirits had, after all, visited him not one month before, putting him through his version of hell with their unwanted tutelage.

It wasn't Monsieur Daae's vapid form he spotted before turning away to return to Christine, but the sight of two others who stealthily approached the chapel. The Phantom hesitated in narrow-eyed speculation, and upon recognizing their faces a warning signal swiftly rose in his mind.

**xXx**

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**A/N: Credits:_ La belle et la b_****_ête_ ****– published in 1740 by Madame Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Gallon de Villeneuve****… Other versions of the famous classic we know today as Beauty and the Beast were published since this time, but this French adaptation is the one I chose for my story, and which I figured could have been passed down through generations of storytelling, eventually told to Christine by her father, who could have heard it while living in France. **

**I have always seen strong similarities between PotO and Beauty and the Beast, and had to include it somehow, but naturally wanted it to fit the time frame of the story and be the adaptation they might have known in 1871.**

**I hope you liked this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it! :)**


	16. Let Your Fantasies Unwind

**A/N: Thank you all for your wonderful reviews! Your suggestions and comments are always much appreciated. Barb- Phantomus Interruptus!- Omg- I love that! roflol – and thanks, it's good to be back. :) …vintagelover- I'll try to work more on that. Sometimes I tend to get more character-driven, but I agree with you, the feeling of place is important to a story…FieryPen37- oh, yeah! lol- and I am having ****such**** fun writing those moments – maybe too much (can you tell? ;-)) Elainejoy- yeah, I see what you mean about Raoul and Prince Adam. Must be the pretty hair. ;-) …And now I take you to where we last left our couple. Please, as you read, remember that Christine is still on that delicate balance of girlhood and womanhood- her actions fluctuating between both from moment to moment…keep in mind also, her thoughts might not always make sense at times- but then, that's what confusion does…**

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**Let your fantasies unwind**

**Chapter XVI**

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Christine sat still as a dormouse on the bench seat and shivered in the awful silence. The cold seeped through her nightdress, while dread chilled its way through her bones.

With her feet drawn against her beneath the gown's hem, her soles flat on the smooth stone bench, she wrapped her arms tightly around her drawn up legs and stared into the steady candlelight. She refused to look past the glowing flames into the unforgiving murky darkness beyond.

Erik still had not returned.

Again Christine thought about the reason for his swift absence.

When it came to _who_ had tried to break down the doors, her apprehension was slight as to their identity, though considerable with the fear that she and Erik might have been caught. Anyone in the theater could have caused trouble for her upon seeing her there in his arms.

Minutes had passed since their explosive encounter, minutes that caused the strange breathless giddiness she felt when he kissed her, when he had _touched_ her, to melt away. In its place stark awareness had filtered back into her mind, slowly but with a vengeance.

She stared at her surroundings in a daze of unease. In his embrace, she forgot everything: The sense of time … the sense of place … the sense of right …

The sense of wrong …

He had kissed her so passionately, touched her so _intimately_, in a manner she had only fantasized about since the all too brief moment they had lain together on his bed. Even then in her naiveté her dreams were uncertain, the forbidden pictures in the book helping her better to understand. But never, _never_ had she dreamt that the reality of his warm, wet mouth and eager hands on her skin could have such a precarious impact on her senses, to the point that she would have given herself to him then and there, forgetting all else. A flash of heat flooded her body, unwelcome due to its origin of pleasurable memory. Again she looked around with a sense of utter shock, troubled at the realization of where their indiscreet moment had taken place.

In the chapel.

In _the chapel!_

She closed her eyes in concerned dismay.

Would her soul now be damned throughout eternity for engaging in forbidden pleasures in a holy chamber set aside for earnest prayer to God? The chamber where, since childhood, she had often knelt before her father's plaque in solemn reflection? This chamber where she first met what she thought was her true heavenly angel?

Her Angel …

He was still her Angel. Kind and gentle… And he had become her Phantom. Inscrutable and dark … And always he had been a man, though she had not known it, with a passion that set her soul on fire …

She closed her eyes, the memory of their heated encounter from the moment he found her tonight making her tremble again, only this time not with dwindling desire … but in building anger.

His earnest explanation had scattered her confusion and put her mind at ease. How the horrid Chantel learned of his half mask no longer interested Christine. She had faith in Erik and should have exercised that faith from the start. The lurid drawing knocked her off balance, making it impossible to think clearly at first, making her behave like a wayward child. It took his quiet, distressed plea for her to trust him to make her realize what a silly little goose she'd been. But Meg was right. Christine may have been a fool, but Chantel was a _vindictive, vulgar little tramp, _who should be kicked to the cobbles without further delay and with Christine's footprint on her fanny!

Once more anxious, Christine bit down hard on her lip and cast a worried glance to the ceiling shrouded in darkness. Now she was thinking unholy thoughts _in a place of reverent worship?_ It wasn't wicked enough that she had yearned for – wordlessly _begged_ – her dark Angel to take her right where she sat, in this sacred place, beneath the stained glass window, and do whatever he wished with her – now she was thinking evil thoughts of retribution in her boiling resentment of Chantel's interest in Christine's Phantom-lover?

Her father would be disappointed at her momentary lack of charity.

Madame and Papa _both_ would be horrified at her complete lack of inhibition.

Christine assessed the past several minutes, comprising the extent of her emotion.

_If Erik had not barred those doors ..._

She shuddered at the worrisome thought and closed her eyes.

Had word gotten back to Madame of her late night indiscretion, Christine could have been discharged from the chorus. When Marie, a sweet dancer one year older, was found to be with child, at the previous manager's insistence Madame fired her, giving no regard to her tears and pleas to stay in any capacity until she found other work. Christine had been quietly horrified, sympathetic to the girl's plight, as had the other ballet rats. And for a time, she had overheard no whispered confessions of secret trysts from anyone, each night, as she lay in her dormitory bed.

Her cheeks and forehead bloomed with heat at the thought of one day carrying Erik's child. While the idea wasn't displeasing, in fact something she would hope for, it made her more strongly consider her current position at the theater as the forthcoming and _inexperienced_ lead, her new role therefore precarious and conditional.

The new managers were licentious, much worse than Lefevere, but like all business owners they preferred to avoid a scandal that could threaten their position and profit. An irony considering their duplicitous lifestyle. Their desire not to let knowledge of the O. G.'s threats or activities leak to the press confirmed their fear of public ridicule, and many of their audience were members of the high-minded noblesse whose favor they curried. Which made it even stranger that they would encourage her to initiate a clandestine involvement with a vicomte – their patron – Raoul … oh, it was all too much to sort out at the moment. There was so much she didn't understand about the covert workings of this theater!

She heard a soft, scratching noise and her eyes flew to the entrance and the darkness there. When the scratching stopped and nothing more happened, she shivered.

Why had Erik not returned? He was too clever to be caught. Perhaps Madame _had_ been the one to try to gain entrance, looking for her, and now she and Erik were in heated discussion involving his presence there with Christine …

But … that made no sense either. Madame had expressed grave displeasure at Christine's earlier refusal to see him. She doubted her ballet teacher would be upset to know that Christine and Erik were together now. With the new schedule her Maestro initiated, Madame also knew that Christine kept company with Erik in his lair the entire night, _sleeping in his bed. _If not for her foolishness to so quickly believe a lie, tonight would have been no different_._

Why Madame had never approached Christine with questions or tried to put an end to their arrangement, Christine often wondered. Of course, her Phantom Angel was daunting to many, insisting on his way, and Madame _was_ his aide. Still, Christine felt curious why Madame never said anything to her, except to ask if he'd "made his requests known."

Pondering a possible explanation, Christine dropped her chin to her knees. Perhaps… perhaps the reason for her turning a blind eye was because Christine was soon to become his wife. At least she hoped so, though to her disappointment he never stated those exact words, instead only strongly insinuating marriage was to be the outcome of their profession of love. If that _were_ true … then those shared moments of blinding passion could not be considered scandalous. Could they?

Whether or not that was the case, such stimulating trysts with her fiery dark Angel were most definitely _**not **_appropriate in a consecrated chapel!

In frustration, Christine shook her head at her unintentional audacity. She wished she had someone to question about her uncertainties … but who? Madame knew she went to Erik's lair, but not how intimate their relationship had become, and she would rather endure five practice sessions, end to end, than to speak to her stern ballet instructor of such things. Meg was also untried, and Father was dead, though on a matter so delicate, she likely would have been much too timid to seek his counsel.

In the past, Christine might have confided in her Angel – but he was no true angel and as much a part of the situation as she. From his actions tonight, he certainly found nothing improper with engaging in intimacy absent from the sanctified union of wedlock. And Madame condoned Christine's presence in his lair. So perhaps … perhaps no logical reason existed for them to wait to learn of those unspoken secrets …

Or to wait for him to take her to his bed.

The sudden thought made her heart beat a little faster and her breath catch in her throat. When immersed in such intense passion as Erik made her feel, she welcomed the idea, actually had no lucid thought whatsoever, desiring only to be as close to him as possible. But when her mind was ruthlessly clear, as now, the uncertainty of what was to come, and the mysterious pain she'd heard some ballet rats somberly whisper about, made her view the prospect with a strange mix of determined curiosity and … hesitant unease. Not wanting to avoid crossing that threshold altogether, of course, but a timid part of her wanting to wait as long as possible until she did.

Christine scowled at her exasperating childishness. Afraid of the darkness without Erik. Afraid of physical intimacy with him – yet so often wanting her exciting Phantom to kiss and touch and hold her, which twice now might have led to that inevitable conclusion.

Oh! She was such a pathetic mess of contradictions!

At the sound of a step on the stones, she swung her gaze to the entrance, both relieved and nervous to see him approach. His stature loomed tall, dark, and impressive, like a mythical god, his black cloak fluttering in graceful obeisance behind him. His ever-changing eyes expressed concern as he neared.

"Christine? You're trembling." The rich timbre of his voice came deep and lyrical, even so few words able to weave a spell around her soul, just as he wrapped part of his cloak around her shoulders. "Come, we need to leave this place and get you into a warm bed."

"All is well then?" She swallowed hard, peering up at him. "Will I … will I be coming with you to your home?"

Something dark flashed in his eyes, but he shook his head. "Not tonight. No."

"But …" She hesitated. His answer gave her the escape needed after such troublesome reflection, yet adversely she was not pleased. Their time together had been brief and now in his company again, she did not want to wait another full day and night to spend with him. Especially after all that had happened, she wished to remain in his presence.

Would she _ever_ understand her contrary heart and mind?

"I wish to go with you, Erik. Have you forgotten about the lessons and the opening week after next?"

Her quiet words sounded foolish and she wondered what he must think of her when his visible dark eyebrow arched high. He of all people would not have forgotten, since he, alone, had orchestrated her musical triumph. But she wished only to be with him and said whatever came to mind to help bring that conclusion.

"The lessons will have to wait," he insisted softly. "A matter has arisen that I must attend to."

His inscrutable gaze dropped to her bare toes peeking from beneath the edge of her gown and he shook his head, his lips curling in a sardonic twist of amusement. "We cannot leave by way of the corridor. There are two men outside those doors and I believe they have every intention of coming inside. One of them is the fiend Buquet. Nor can you walk through the tunnel leading to your dormitory with no shoes. Water stands thickly on the ground …"

Her Angel let out a sigh of tolerant exasperation, her guardian once again, then gently pulled her to stand before him, his hands clasping her beneath the shoulders. He leaned down to bring his fascinating eyes to a level with hers. In the dim lighting they now burned smoky-green.

"Christine, listen to me. In the past I know you thought nothing of leaving your room in your nightdress so late in the night, but times have changed. There is a new danger in the opera house. You _must _desist with this custom of running about half-dressed."

Christine meekly nodded, her act entirely innocent. She hadn't thought anyone would still be awake, and she'd been too upset to think clearly to remember to put on a wrapper or her slippers.

"I meant no harm."

He gave her a tight smile and nod then bent to retrieve his gloves from the flagstones, pulling them on his long, slender hands with two quick snaps.

She pulled her attention away from his action, noting how even something so ordinary he carried out with fluid elegance – and the rest of what he said came clear. Her eyes widened as she searched his face now partly turned away from her. "_What_ danger?"

"That I am unsure of, but I sense it exists. And you must always be on your guard."

She drew her brows together in worry. "You're going to investigate, aren't you? That's why I can't come with you to the lair."

He briefly closed his eyes at the sudden return of strength to her voice then moved to kiss her forehead, cradling her face in his gloved hands. "I will do what I must to protect what belongs to me. That includes you," he added softly, lifting her chin when she looked down, unhappy with his reply. But he was the Phantom of the Opera, this was his domain, and she knew there was no stopping him.

"Erik, be careful."

He smiled in heedless indifference. "You need not fear for my safety. But we must leave this chamber before those fools find they cannot open the doors and go seek help."

"Was it not them who tried before?"

"They approached the corridor afterward."

She drew her brows together in confusion and shook her head. "Then … who?"

"If I told you my assumptions, you would not believe me."

"Of course I would – _oh!_"

Her words ended in a startled gasp as he swung her off the ground and into his arms. She blinked up at him in bewilderment.

"As I said, you cannot traverse the damp corridors without shoes, and the secret passage is our only way out. The sole option left open is to carry you."

Shyly Christine smiled up at him and wrapped her arm around his neck. She could think of no better option. Pressed against the solid warmth of his chest held in his strong arms, she again felt safe, though the air where he did not touch her made her shiver. Or perhaps her shivering had nothing to do with the cold but everything to do with the man who held her so close.

"Wrap the edge of my cloak around you," he instructed her quietly.

She reached across him and pulled the generous thick fold over her body, encasing them both within the cloak's warm refuge. The stir of the material released a strong wave of the pleasant aroma of candle smoke, sweet ink, and musk that was all his. He moved to the entrance where the lamp stand glowed dimly then turned.

The bend of her legs rested across his arm, and she felt the quick jarring motion of his hand flick upward. Instantly, the candles blew out in the chapel as if by an unseen breath, casting the chamber in complete darkness. Her eyes widened further as she heard the bar lift away and fall from the doors high above them then clatter to the stones.

"Erik …?" she whispered in wondering curiosity.

"Trust me. There is nothing to fear." She could hear the smile coat his low voice as he moved down the dead-end corridor. "To their knowledge … it is only a ghost."

She nodded against him and resolved he would never again need to doubt her trust. Even as they moved away from the open flames of the lamp stand and into a world of thick darkness, she was not afraid. She was with her Angel, who Father had trusted enough to ask to be her guardian. He would always protect her.

Erik pushed his back to the wall. Christine wasn't surprised when the stone moved and gave way to a black cavern of emptiness, which he then stepped through. As the stone closed, concealing them in the secret passageway, she heard the door leading down to the chapel creak open from above. She wondered what an evil man like Joseph Buquet would want in a sacred place and so late at night. Had he arrived earlier he would have been the one to find her there, alone, instead of her Angel. The alarming thought made her shiver and she snuggled closer to Erik.

Pitch darkness surrounded them, but Christine didn't close her eyes to block it out. It failed to matter since she could see nothing, and she experienced the oddest sensation of being uncertain if her eyes were indeed open or in fact shut. Erik, however, must have been born with the eyes of a wildcat, an equivalent to his leonine grace. He moved without hesitation, sure of where he was going, the length of their progress marked by the steady splashes his shoes made as he walked through the long, winding tunnel. Her eyes slowly adjusted to her dim surroundings, patches of slate gray standing out amid the endless black, and she realized light must be coming from some source for her to distinguish colors. Still, she found it surprising he could navigate so well.

Content to be in his arms, she barely noticed when he stopped.

"Christine?"

"Mmm?" She lifted her head from where it had burrowed against his neck.

"Reach to your right. There is a lever. Push it down."

Her hand searched in the darkness, soon meeting with a protrusion in the stone – and suddenly part of the wall disappeared beside her outstretched arm. She gasped softly when she noticed they were only a few feet from the stairs leading up to her dormitory.

He moved through, pressing against one of the painted shells on the papered wall, and the entrance again became hidden, blending with the wall to appear as if it never existed. The corridor stood empty, a sole torch flickering in the gloom to light the way. She could see the strain on his face from carrying her so great a distance.

"Erik, you can put me down. The floor isn't wet here."

Instead, he moved up the staircase with her. To her stunned alarm, he swept with her through the door of her dormitory. She felt grateful that none of the other girls appeared to be awake to know that the Phantom of the Opera had walked into their midst.

He moved directly to her cot, fronted by lengthy wisps of fluttering curtains, and set her on the mattress carefully. She felt mild surprise that he knew where she slept. But then, it was the only empty cot in the room and she supposed that's how he must have known.

"You will be careful?" she whispered, now worried by what he might undertake and wondering if he would again resort to becoming a phantasmal specter to scare the men away.

His smile was mysterious. "I am always careful."

His response produced within her a tiny shiver of longing to remain with him and a niggling of fear that despite his great genius he might be caught. For all his magician's tricks and ease of slipping into shadows, he was not immortal. "You will come for me tomorrow night at the mirror?" she asked suddenly, needing to hear him say the words.

"Yes. Tomorrow we will resume your lessons."

He started to move away, but she clung to his arm. "I don't want to let you go."

He bent to cradle her face in his gloved hands. "Soon, Ma Cheѓie, very soon, the day will come when you will not have to."

Startled by the significance of his deep, velvet words she stared into his eyes, motionless, her heart skipping a rapid beat. He pressed his lips to hers, but briefly, and was gone, his cloak billowing gracefully behind him. A true phantom in the night.

Christine sucked in a slow breath, the chill returning with his absence. She slid between the sheets and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, thinking of his parting promise to her, of what it would mean. Away from the sacred chapel and again in her warm bed, she allowed the memories to return and linger. Beneath the coverlet, her fingertips slowly traced down the front of her gown barely touching where he had touched as she replayed every moment of his heated mouth kindling hers, his hands scorching her flesh, her Phantom lover igniting a low flame of need that burned deep within her soul … and even now remained lit.

Flushing hotly, Christine curled onto her side and drew her arm against her chest, pressing her fist beneath her chin … fantasizing of becoming one with Erik and learning the full bounty of his impassioned music of the night …

Her mind, an unceasing nuisance, took up the trail of thought it had abandoned in the chapel.

_But what will _really_ happen? _logic whispered malevolently. _Beyond that point of no return …_

_It doesn't matter. I will be with him,_ her heart answered in stubborn loyalty. _That's all that counts._

_If it doesn't matter, then why continue to question ...?_

She closed her eyes in reluctant defeat – _why would her mind not let her be! _– but allowed reason to have its methodical say.

The ultimate conclusion must be satisfying, with as many forms of prose and plays written involving the act, Erik's own fiery composition among them. Words of fire and passion and buds bursting into bloom, though the latter did sound painful. She had tasted of the fire, experienced the building ache, and wondered how it would feel to be "consumed" by that fire. Would that hurt as well? It was amazing that he could write so descriptively without experiencing such knowledge firsthand. Some of his lyrics must be meant not to be taken literally, surely only as prose and poetry. The drawings had helped to clarify some unspoken questions but not all of them … and what remained undisclosed disturbed her.

_But he's __my Angel__,_ her heart valiantly argued against logic's cold, pragmatic view that seemed never would give her peace. _He once sacrificed his desire to be with me, in his fear that I would come to harm. He was ready to embrace a future of loneliness and heartache, for my sake, if that meant I would be safe. Surely, I can endure whatever suffering is necessary to show him my love?_

For once, the voice of reason had no reply.

She remembered how gently he held her, how he insisted on carrying her, how he always protected her. He would never hurt her, if he could help it. Reassured in that knowledge, at last she relaxed, unwanted logic blissfully fading away as her dreams chased it far into the darkness.

.

**xXx**

.

The Phantom swiftly returned to the black darkness of the corridor behind the chapel and with furtive ease took his place behind the wall with the fresco of the angel. The same place where he had stood night after night and coached Christine, reassured her and consoled her, criticized and scolded her. How their relationship had altered since those stirring moments when his sole gratification had been to catch a glimpse of her sweet face and hear the crystalline purity of her voice!

He still carried out traits of both teacher and friend, but never again could he consider her anything remotely like a child. Even when she behaved like one, it had been a woman of fire and spirit who confronted him tonight in this chapel… a woman of passion and grace he had held in his arms …

Casting from his mind the incredible memory of their encounter lest he forget why he was there, he relinquished all of his fantasies and relied on shrewd reason as he watched through a crack as thick and long as his index finger, cleverly disguised as a crease in the angel's flowing sleeve.

The two miscreants stood in shadows near the lamp stand and entrance of the chapel, murmuring too low for Erik to hear them. To his maddened frustration, he only caught snatches of their exchange, as they would frequently move their heads to view the murky chamber, of whose design they seemed to show keen interest.

_"Another passage for it … to arouse suspicion … three weeks … the chamber will suit… Chagny? Laurent? Dubois, yes, definitely. During the new opera … no one will refuse … arrangements for meeting … will contact the others …"_

The bearded stranger he'd glimpsed at the opera house once before did most of the talking, Buquet nodding in agreement. Both men turned and took the twisting stairs exiting the chapel. The Phantom quickly moved to the tunnel and a shorter passage that branched off from the one through which he had carried Christine. From this advantageous point and a hole in the wall, he watched the two men part, the stranger leaving the opera house through a back door.

The narrow network of forgotten passages within these main walls of the opera house bore a slight resemblance to the labyrinth of tunnels in the cellars beneath. He assumed these corridors had been blocked off long before he'd taken residence there, remembering the night over two decades ago when the young Antoinette Giry grabbed his hand and ran with him to a hidden door few knew about and since had been forgotten. He later walled the entry with stone, to match what flanked it, ensuring his own private access and the public's exclusion. For what purpose the narrow passages had first been created, then later walled up remained a mystery. But their existence had appealed to his boyhood thirst for dark adventure and later proved beneficial to his menacing role as the Opera Ghost. Along with trapdoors for protection, he had crafted other entrances and spy holes to aid him in his ruse. A few of the passages led down below, such as the one behind the mirror door he'd built and the entrance Christine found near Box Five. The one closest to him led to the rear exit of the theater, where deliveries were made, and he took it with due haste.

Within moments, he spotted the intruder and followed him along the wide empty street of the Rue Scribe, careful to keep his distance. Scattered lampposts cast an infrequent glow over the cobblestones, wet from the melting snow. An occasional lantern's light attached to a carriage coming into view joggled in the mist. Other than that, the night was dark, just how the Phantom liked it.

He avoided the lampposts and kept to the shadows, stepping back into the shallow alcove of a doorway when the man stopped at a corner to speak with another man dressed as shabbily as he. A light drizzle began to fall and Erik glowered at the dismal sky. His home may be cold and damp, but at least, _there_, no icy moisture fell on his head! He wished for his fedora he wore on the rare occasion he sauntered outside the opera house, but there had been no time to hasten to the lair to retrieve his hat.

The bearded intruder suddenly stuffed his fists in coat pockets and hurried down another street. The Phantom wasted no time in following. The stranger soon headed into the poor district of the city, where the streets lay narrow and the buildings crowded close. At last, he approached the door of one and knocked in a series of sharp raps. An immodestly dressed woman with rouged lips and thick paint on her face opened the door to the man, smiled in welcome, and proceeded to grab his lapels, pulling him inside. Before the door closed, Erik noticed other women behind her, as shoddily dressed in scanty attire and draped around other men.

He scowled when he realized he stood across the street from a brothel. A night wasted! A night he could have spent with Christine …

With an irritated snap of his cloak he moved away, again blending into the darkness, as was his custom, though there was no one there to see. Few traversed the streets so late and in such foul weather.

During the endless walk home, his mind careened on an unswerving return to those forbidden moments with Christine in the chapel. Forbidden … YES… _forbidden_. How often must he remind himself of that? She was young, pure, untried. He was inexperienced in body but possessed a wealth of knowledge in his mind. What he had not gleaned through illicit texts, he had witnessed of the impure rabble that lived and worked at the theater. The men were no better than rutting dogs taking whatever bitch was in heat – the women acting as if they were previous residents of a common brothel like the one he'd just left. He did not mean to watch, though in his youth he'd been curious and had stared from the shadows of the theater.

After Persia and the revolting incidents he was forced to witness and create involving the perverted insanities of the shah and his malicious mother, once he escaped to France and returned to the opera house, if he would happen to come across a couple in the throes of carnal lust, he only scowled, turned and left. Though sometimes, in his aversion, the occasional torch would abruptly fall from its bracket on the wall and roll in their direction or blow out by his silent command. To his acerbic delight this put a swift end to their raucous grunts as they would then fearfully question each other in the sudden darkness if a ghost could be in their midst. The first time he overheard, the germ of the idea developed in his mind: _The Opera Ghost._ How wickedly delightful, how cunningly clever and diabolical. Yet not until the toad La Carlotta's unsavory entrance into the theater did he embellish on the idea … and with increasing frequency. Thus, the Phantom of the Opera was born.

Then came Christine, a simple child whose rich voice washed away the bleak emptiness that had become his soul. A gentle angel, whose sweetness and beauty made the depravity and blind self-indulgence of those who lived in the theater a little easier to bear.

He would _not_ betray her innocence.

Or had he done so already?

He clenched his teeth at the disquieting thought while he swept through the fringes of shadows. He did not compare himself to those animals of the O.P. who sought any willing body to gratify their base desires – he loved Christine utterly, wanted to spend his lifetime only with her. Yet moments such as those in the chapel were fast growing beyond his ability to control, though he tried. By all that was sacred, _he __had__ tried!_ He had no damn control when he was with her. The unexpected knowledge of her love and the transcendent gentleness of her touch had blown wide apart the gate he had slammed down in the chambers of his heart where he had dammed up all feeling. Now loosed, the surge overwhelmed him, and in her presence, he wasn't certain how much longer he could keep the volatile swell of emotions from drowning them both.

He was pliant clay in her small hands, though God help him if she ever discovered it. And she was putty in his eager grasp, the desire to touch her growing continual, to bring her to life under his hands that ached to stroke all of her smooth, porcelain skin and mold her supple flesh completely to his …

_God! This was insanity!_

Even in creating distance, he could not stop thinking of her, could not stop wanting her … and to dwell on as yet unattainable fantasies only sharpened his torment.

At last reaching the opera house, he entered through the stables, stopping only briefly to check on Cesar before taking the secret entrance near the stairwell down to his lair. Until that day, that blessed, elusive hour, he had much to accomplish, and her absence tonight would give him additional time.

In weeks past, he would have never dared linger on such evocative fantasies that burned like molten lava within, would have never dared dream that he would possess all he ever wanted. Immersed moment by blissful moment in the bounty of Christine's affections, he had long since moved beyond his customary excuse of "unattainable" and "implausible" to the extraordinary and heartening "hopeful" and "credible" – and now was impatient to seize that hour, cursing each day for its slow unraveling into the next.

The passage of time _would_ bring that hour into existence. It must. And when it did, Erik would rely on the wealth of twenty-two years' of knowledge he retained to illustrate to Christine, entirely and unreservedly, the hidden mysteries of the flesh. To teach her the evocative melody of the night … his music, his greatest composition … at last to become theirs.

If only that day would arrive …

Casting aside such heated fantasies, he strode with determination to his lair, returning to cool, pragmatic logic and the need to continue with his plans.

* * *

**A/N: I know, I know. A lot of this seems like filler. But it's all advancing the plot. Pause for reflection and more- I felt all of it was necessary to show their emotions and mindsets now … to better understand the why of what happens as story progresses. 0-:-) (I'm such a tease. lol)**

**Would love to know what you think!**


	17. A Dream and Nothing More

**A/N: Seven months? (Runs and hides) Oh wow - I really had no idea it was that long! I'm so sorry ****…Well, one thing, I won't be going back to work until after the new year, so expect a lot more of story in that time ****– am trying to post a chapter a week. (Sorry if I've been posting too fast.) Like I say with all my stories- as long as there's interest - I'll keep writing on it. I have 3 completes to prove I finish. :) Anyway - thank you for the reviews! (*hands out candy red roses with dark chocolate ribbons to you guys and ****– you don't even have to say trick or treat ****– as for me****…a trick? - Yes, yes, I know you guys want them together like NOW - lol (I'm really not that much of a tease, much****…) BUT the imminent treat: the anticipation of the wait does make things so much sweeter when the moment occurs, don't you think? ;-) And on into****… **

* * *

**A Dream and Nothing More**

**Chapter XVII**

**.**

Christine set out on a seemingly endless trek. She searched the warren of backstage corridors, ignoring the patently curious and mildly hostile glances she received from cast members and crew alike as she quickly swept past them.

This time she would not be stopped.

"Meg!" she called in relief, seeing her friend's straight fair hair hanging down almost to the waist of her satin ballet costume. Meg turned from talking to someone and Christine hastened her approach with a smile. As she walked, Raoul's tall, lean form came into view, where the jutting wall had concealed it, and she stopped in sudden shock.

"Hello, Christine."

"Raoul."

Embarrassed heat washed over her face. She looked away from his curious blue eyes and to the wall, troubled by the memory of what the troublemaker Chantel had said. Of what this entire theater now thought. She had few friends and many enemies, for whatever reason. But that these people she had lived among for years would spread such vicious lies with regard to her and Raoul's nonexistent association stung, and she found it difficult to speak with him, even in greeting. Any time spent in his company, even while among others, would no doubt be misconstrued.

The tension grew palpable as the silence thickened and Christine looked anywhere but at him. She heard him clear his throat.

"Well, ladies, I must be off. I have a few matters I need to discuss with the managers. Miss Giry, it was a pleasure. Christine …" he spoke her name as if uncertain he should, "I bid you adieu."

Christine faintly nodded and swung a curious glance to Meg as he walked away, wondering if by the high color in her friend's cheeks Raoul had meant more to his parting statement than a simple farewell for her friend. It certainly would solve her problem if he took an interest in Meg. Though it would be to her misfortune if the gossipmongers concluded that he was seeing them _both_ behind closed doors. With the way Providence seemed to be leading for her of late, that would likely be the ultimate conclusion.

Meg turned on her suddenly. "Did you have to be so rude? He was only trying to be kind. Honestly, I thought he was once your_ friend_." She pivoted on her heel and whisked away.

Christine stared after her, stung by Meg's words, then hurried to catch up. She put a hand to Meg's arm to stop her. "Please, don't be cross. I wasn't trying to be unkind. When I saw him I just couldn't help but think – well, what the chorus is saying – about what Chantel said …"

Meg looked at her then. "I told you not to pay attention to any of her jealous ramblings. Honestly, Christine, that's all this is about. She's jealous of you. Of your quick rise to fame and the Vicomte's interest – everyone saw that at the ball. She wants him to take notice of her, as so many do …"

_Then why would she pen such a drawing of Erik?_ Christine thought with a twinge of bitter jealousy. Unless what Meg said was true and Chantel had seen her attraction to him. She did also see _them_ together at the ball _..._ At the wistful close to Meg's words, Christine also suspected her assumption was correct and Meg included herself among those who wished for Raoul to notice them.

"The little guttersnipe should have been shown to the door when she first came here two months ago!" Meg fumed.

"Never mind about her." Christine looped her arm through her friend's, walking with her in the direction of their dormitory. "I have something I want to share with you. I've been wanting to tell you for days!"

Meg looked at her. "A secret?" Her eyes gleamed and Christine thought of just how many secrets were wrapped up in her dark Angel. "A" secret sounded so banal when describing the captivating man of mystery who was hers alone to discover.

"Oh yes, Meg, the most wonderful secret I've ever shared," she said with a dreamy little sigh.

"I hope it's the one you promised to share with me that day in your dressing room."

"Yes, Meg, that's it exactly!"

Like two eager schoolgirls, they stopped, looked at each other and grinned, then in a fit of light giggles hastened up the flight of stairs leading to their dorm. Once there, Christine fell upon her bed to sit, and Meg dropped down beside her.

"Well - _well __…?_"

Christine twisted sideways, grabbing her friend's hands. "You must promise on your honor _never_ to tell a soul, Meg."

"Never – and if I do, may the Opera Ghost haunt me 'til all my teeth fall out and my bones grow crooked."

Christine's eyes widened at hearing their childish solemn motto, and Meg's face turned bright peony red.

"Oh, Christine, I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking –"

Christine dissolved into another fit of bubbling giggles. As a young girl, she had never known the identity of the terrible phantom that caused such havoc within the theater. Now she thought it exceedingly delightful and wickedly funny to hear her friend say such words.

"No, Meg, I don't wish that _for you_." A sparkle lit her voice, matching her air of cheerful mischief. "But may he be _with me_ for twice that long. Though I do hope all my teeth don't fall out." She wrinkled her nose at the thought.

Meg gaped at her in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"That's my secret! Erik – my teacher – he loves me. He told me so. And I feel the same about him. We resumed our association and I've been seeing him almost every night for weeks. For my lessons, of course."

She hoped the blush warming her skin didn't give the other moments away, lessons to be learned most certainly, but delightful ones she would never share. Not even with her dearest friend. Some things, after all, were meant to be kept secret.

Meg blinked as if trying to absorb what Christine said. "But I thought, after what happened yesterday –"

"That was all a lie," Christine interrupted curtly, not wanting the ugly memory to spoil the happy occasion. "I spoke with him. And I believe him. It was Chantel's twisted fantasy, nothing more."

"The little bitch."

Christine's mouth dropped open to hear Meg speak so crudely. Her friend didn't look the least bit ashamed. "Well, she is. She's nothing more than a nasty little Irish strumpet, and she deserves whatever she gets." She hesitated, squeezing Christine's hands. "But, Christine, are you sure you should become so … involved with your teacher and so fast?"

"I'm going to marry him, Meg." She spoke with conviction but still that slim thread of annoying doubt wound around her certainty, cutting into her complete happiness. She shook off such thoughts, remembering the wedding gown he had made for her, _proof_ of his feelings in the matter. "And I want you to stand with me when I do. Like we promised each other when we were children."

Meg looked torn, clearly not at peace with the idea, but she gave a faint nod and smile. "Of course. I'll always be here for you, Christine. You have only to ask. When …" she cleared her throat awkwardly. "When will the wedding take place?"

Christine looked briefly askance, trying to hide the tension in her answer. "We haven't discussed dates yet. But I hope it will be soon."

Meg's smile softened, becoming genuine. "You really do love him, don't you?"

"Oh, yes. My whole lifetime, I think."

"Then I'm happy for you, truly. I just wish …"

Startled, Christine tightened her hands around Meg's, her voice lowering to a faint whisper. "Shh. _Wait!_" She darted a look toward the entrance, then around the room, her eyes alert.

"Christine, what's wrong?"

She didn't answer, only pulled her hands from Meg's and stood up, staring along the low ceiling, making a slow pivot, lowering her gaze to the stone walls. That same unpleasant prickling sensation she'd felt earlier in the week, when she'd left Erik to go to practice, caused chill bumps to rise on her flesh.

"I think we're being watched," she whispered.

"What? By who?" Meg's reply came just as quiet.

"I … don't know …" Christine couldn't shake her unease. She moved toward the corridor and looked out.

"Well?"

"Empty."

"Maybe it's your Angel?"

"No. It's not him." This fearful vulnerability she had experienced only once, and never when she knew Erik had entered her presence. "This has happened before, early one morning, I felt as if someone was following me, watching me …"

Meg suddenly broke into a gay smile. "Christine, you must have been dreaming, or perhaps you were only spooked by a harmless noise. This opera house certainly creaks and groans enough when the wood settles. There's no one outside, and unless the walls have eyes as well as ears, we're alone. Besides, what would you have to be concerned about, with the Opera Ghost as your personal protector?"

Christine attempted a smile at her friend's gentle teasing but couldn't quench her apprehension. Erik had warned her of a new danger. She should speak to him about her concerns, of what just occurred and the first time she'd sensed someone watching. He would know what to do. And she should warn her friend.

Christine returned to her cot and solemnly sank back down beside her.

"Meg, there is something else you should know …"

.

**xXx**

.

Erik blinked his eyes a few times to try to dispel a peculiar faint haze from his mind, one that had clung with persistence during his entire journey to this appointed spot. He watched Christine enter the room and his shoulders sagged in a deep sigh of relief. After his previous arrival to these doors and what had then ensued, he had not known what to expect.

Christine's mood could be as changeable as the weather and just as erratic, and he felt in no way disposed to tolerate another fit of temperament. Though after what she'd seen in that preposterous drawing, he could not blame her initial reaction and instantly forgave her impudence to him. Then …

Her boldness was reaching new heights even he had not foreseen. While on one level it stirred his blood to a dangerous warmth that she no longer displayed any sign of childish reserve or reverential fear, it also maddened him that she spoke to him with such angry confidence. For the first time in his life he had felt a strange parallel to another mortal – close to the cutting banter he had shared with the Daroga, the former chief of police at the Shah's palace who rarely feared Erik's reactions, knowing when not too push him too far. But he had been a man. With Christine, he felt at times they spoke as equals – with no formidable mask or title of mad ghost to inhibit her – with no girlish naïveté or dewy-eyed awe to restrain him. Gone was the meek child who once dropped her gaze to the floor at his outbursts and trembled in the face of his rage. Nor did she seem to fear pushing him too far. Such novel moments exasperated him, confounded him, and – deep at the core of all that – they darkly excited him, causing Erik to want to run his hands all over her body and bend her will completely to his. To possess her, overpower her, but more than that, to command to the surface the fullness of the woman that blossomed within.

As Christine locked the dressing room door, he pushed all thoughts of ravishing her firmly aside and slid the mirror open on its track. Her eyes brightened when she turned and saw him. The coveted sight of her and her delighted reaction made his heart turn over with tenderness and gratitude that all had returned to the proper order and this evening would proceed as planned. He didn't think he could endure another arousing altercation at the moment.

"Good evening, Christine."

Without hesitation, she glided forward and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. Moved, he lifted his arms to hold her close a short time then reluctantly set her from him, eager to return to the cool, dim quiet of his lair. He held out his gloved hand. "Come." At his soft command, she readily placed her fingers against his glove and they began their long, winding trek through the dark cellars down to his home.

Once he helped her from the gondola and she stepped foot on the shore of his work area, she looked around the hollow chamber of rock as if welcoming a dear old friend. He regarded her with curious surprise. "You seem happy to be here."

"I am. This is where my Angel lives. And with all the beautiful candlelight and your heavenly music, it has become a peaceful haven for me." She smiled shyly at him, then untied the strings of her cloak and let it fall from her shoulders, setting it over his Red Death cape on the back of the chair by the mini theater. "Shall we begin?" Her brown eyes were alight as she lightly clasped her fingers around her dark, shining curls, quickly running her hands down the long clusters of ringlets to smooth them.

His heart caved in at the sight. He thought her the sweetest and loveliest creature in existence. She had spoken of fairies in her tale…perhaps she was indeed a misplaced fairy princess hidden away at the opera house, and he had been the most fortunate ogre to find her. "You do not wish to rest first?"

"I am quite alert and eager to resume my lessons. I can sleep afterward."

Her enthusiasm buoyed his shared delight to begin anew, to hear the sublime excellence of her voice. He nodded in approval, removed his gloves and his own cloak, laying it gently over hers, and followed her toward his pipe organ. He took a seat and put his fingertips to the keys. A sudden wash of dizziness made his upper body sway the slightest fraction, and he impatiently waited for the trifling hindrance to subside.

"Maestro?"

The gentle worry in her voice made him blink. He realized that though his fingers had instinctively located the correct chords, he had yet to begin the scales to introduce her practice. He cleared his throat. "Let us begin."

He took her through the scales and the warm ups then into a simple aria, halfway through closing his eyes against the strange heaviness that seemed to insist on cloaking his mind. His arms felt leaden, though he forced his hands to strike the proper chords. He winced when his little finger conversely slid over to the next key, making a discordant slide into the wrong note.

"Erik."

He heard the gentle command in her voice and her quiet approach but didn't look at her. The effort to turn his head seemed too great.

"What is the matter?" She laid her hand on his shoulder. "My pathetic attempt at those last notes was beyond disastrous, something you usually wouldn't have failed to point out to me."

He smiled in weary amusement. "It seems you no longer need the benefit of my instruction. You have become worthy of your own just criticisms."

"I will always need your instruction," she countered quietly. Her soft hand moved to touch his jaw and seeking relief he pressed his face into her cool fingers.

"Erik!" She turned his head toward her and looked with concern into his eyes. "Your face is like a flame. Don't you feel well?" Her other hand came up to press against his opposite jaw then flew to touch his forehead. "I think you _are_ feverish."

"Rubbish. The Phantom of the Opera never gets ill."

She shook her head at his stubbornness. "Well, that may be. But it appears that the very special _man_ who is my Angel needs care, and I'm here to give it."

Her words moved him, but he refused to give in to such foolish weakness. "We must continue with your lessons. The opening draws near, as well you know, and we have lost too much time already."

"We _cannot_ continue with my lessons if you can barely sit at the organ to play."

He tried to draw in a deep breath for patience, but it made his chest hurt and he allowed the air to lodge in his throat, letting it out softly. "I'm fine, Christine."

She put her hands to her hips. "No, you're not. You're acting just like Meg when she's caught a case of the influenza. I should have realized it earlier. You've been moving slower than usual, as if you're in a haze. And your eyes look dull, as if they're in a fog."

For his normally vigorous condition to be linked with one of the petite ballet rats _and_ found lacking felt like an assault to his character. The insult raised his ire, helping him think a little clearer. "If I've been moving slowly and my eyes are unfocused it's due to a lack of sleep and not the infectious inability to execute the most basic of tasks. NOW, let us continue." He whirled back to face the organ, a mistake, for the room spun with him and he clutched the keys in a discordant clash.

She let out a soft cry of alarm. He heard the swish of her clothing as her arm flew forward to steady him. His dignity injured, he stiffened his back and shoulders like a wall of stone before she could make contact. She hesitated then dropped her hand to her side.

"Play then, if you wish to destroy your health." Her voice came petulant and determined. "But _I_ will _not sing_."

"Don't be difficult, Christine. _Of course_ you will sing! It is why I brought you here."

"_You_ are one to speak of being difficult, _Monsieur Phantom_!"

He glared at the notes of the aria before him, many of which strangely began melding together into indiscernible dark blots.

Instantly changing tactics, she placed her arm around his rigid shoulders. For an instant he vaguely wondered why he had fought off her gentle touch.

"Please, Mon Ange, let me take care of you. We can return to the lessons later, when you've rested for a few minutes. Have you tea? Brandy? Clover honey perhaps?"

His first inclination to refuse and insist on the practice fell to the wayside when he tried to make sense of her inane questions. He had difficulty sorting out their possible logic in his mind and looked at her in hopeless confusion.

"For a hot toddy," she explained with a winsome smile. "Madame Giry always made them for Meg, and I watched. They are wonderful for such ailments."

He waved away her concern. "I have no ailments."

"Of course not." She pulled on his arms in an effort to get him to rise. "Come along, darling. Would it really be so dreadful to lie down for a short time?"

At the tender endearment she had never before used, he felt his tenacity fold in weak surrender like a deflated accordion. He let out a quiet, frustrated breath, realizing she would never desist with this tiring foolishness, and he was weary of arguing. Weary in mind and limb and spirit. "Only a few minutes then."

She attempted again to help him rise but he resisted her coddling. "I'm not infirm," he groused between clenched teeth, holding to the edge of the organ as he pushed himself to his feet in determination. Unfortunately, he must have stood too quickly. His eyes again lost focus, another wave of heated dizziness threatening to make him fall back to the bench. Leaning over, he barely clung on for balance, detesting his once sturdy legs for their despicable weakness.

He felt her small shoulder lodge under his, her slim arm wrapping around his back for support. "Just hold fast to me, my love."

Her voice was sweetness incarnate and he found he could offer no further refusal as he held on to her and she helped him walk toward the stairs leading to the bedchamber. Confused, he opened his mouth to tell her she was going the wrong way, but almost tripped, then wondered how, since no stray stone jutted from the ground to mar his path. It was a wonder he didn't fall down the bloody stairs! She held more tightly to him, wrapping her other arm around his front at his waist as he used his other hand for balance against the wall. Grudgingly, he marveled at her strength, knowing as tall as he was and as solidly built it could not be easy to guide him, though he detested the reason for the emergence of such a trait.

At the bed, she sat down with him on its edge. "Lay back, Mon Ange. Rest." She untangled herself from him and he decided to give in, having had no sleep in three nights, when the pressure of her hands suddenly came to his shoulders to stop him.

"No … wait."

"Make up your mind, Christine," he growled, looking at her through half-slitted eyes, disgusted that his failed attempt at a harsh command came out as weak as a newborn cub's.

"You can't rest with any comfort in your waistcoat and this." He felt her fingers go to the cravat knotted at his throat, pulling at the material until it was free and she whisked it from around his neck. He sensed her hesitation then heard the swish of her skirts as she knelt before him and her fingers went to the buttons of his waistcoat. With slow deliberation she began to unfasten them. He wasn't sure if the trembling he felt was coming from her small hands brushing against his chest or if his suddenly useless body shook from the strange chills that shivered through him. Even useless, his flesh was strongly aware of her nearness, his mind aware that she was undressing him.

"Christine, stop …"

"Hush," she admonished gently and suddenly pulled his waistcoat away from his shoulders, freeing him of one sleeve then the other. She laid the coat over a nearby chest then knelt again, her hands going to his shoes. She had unfastened them and removed them before he could collect enough energy to tell her he could manage. The truth was, he could not manage, and he failed to understand how such a feeling of complete listlessness, as though the very marrow was being sucked from his bones, could so swiftly overcome him. It was heinous, pathetic, the height of all insult, other than the revulsion of his face, that his body would give in to any contemptible form of such physical weakness …

"_Now_, lie down." She helped him to recline against the softness of the velvet sheet, and he had to admit the experience soothed away some of the strange dull ache inside his head. He felt her unfasten the top buttons of his shirt then pull the blanket over him. "Rest, mon amour. I'll be back with your hot toddy soon."

"_Mon Ange ... de la ... Musique_ …" He wanted to express his love for her, but his whispered endearment were the only words he could manage before his mind became mired with the lassitude of his body, and his eyes joined in the betrayal, wearily falling shut.

.

**x**

.

Christine tenderly looked upon his lean, supine form, his body so long that his feet nearly reached the end of the bed. She squelched a tiny bubble of a giggle, pressing her fingers to her mouth. Had she truly just told her strict Maestro and powerful Angel Guardian, the most notorious Phantom of the Opera to "hush"?

Her amazement at her bullying to force him to get bed rest – even more, that he had _succumbed!_ – changed once again to concern as he groaned and mumbled in his sleep. She eyed the porcelain half mask, wondering if it caused him discomfort. She wished he would agree to remove it, wished also that she had not promised never again to try. Remembering his account of how the mask stayed on, she feared the damage it might do if he were bedridden for more than a few minutes, which seemed likely, and the pain it might cause if he lay there for hours … it was evening. The paste would be loose.

Undecided, she twisted her fingers in her skirts to stop them from reaching forward, until she finally stilled them, resigned. It felt like an assault against his privacy to try to remove his mask when he was oblivious to everything around him. She could not do that to him, even to aid in his comfort. She had hurt him enough the first time when shameful curiosity had been the snare to tempt her hand.

Did he ever take it off and _keep_ it off?

With a little sigh of discontent, she left the bedroom and walked across the lair to his kitchen.

Erik's cooking area consisted of a pitifully small corner where bags and boxes of produce sat stacked on the ground and on one narrow shelf. A small stove sat above an oven with a pipe that led through the cavern ceiling. A tall cupboard held a scant amount of dishes and cutlery for the vast space it provided, and a table as small as the oven stood pushed against the wall, where one chair sat facing the expanse of cavern stone.

The pitiful scene brought tears to her eyes when she thought of the twenty-two years of solitude her Angel had lived in this cave beneath the earth, thinking himself an outcast and no better than an animal. Well, he would _never_ be alone again. Marriage or no, she would never leave him.

The revelation came to her swiftly, scattering her earlier misgiving with regard to his puzzling silence of a proposal. After forced into a life of complete solitude, though she still didn't understand his reasons, perhaps he yet needed time to accustom himself to the idea of sharing his life with another individual in the lasting bond of marriage. Perhaps he never would. No matter, her heart was eternally bound to his and there, in that moment, as she stood looking at that one chair in his tiny kitchen, she knew she would always go to him, in whatever capacity he asked. He was right – he had shackled her with his exquisite music, his mesmeric voice, his very presence long years ago. Each year the fetters had tightened and she welcomed their restraint. She was forever bound to Erik and she never wanted to be set free.

Her decision felt liberating, as if a burden had rolled away from her heart, and she made quick work of finding tea and brandy. Seeing no long matchsticks, she took a lit candle from a nearby candelabrum to light the stove. She set the kettle to boil, relieved to find water in it, unsure where Erik kept a fresh supply.

Christine found several beautiful goblets but no teacups. She deliberated, then took two silver goblets, both of them tall and wide-lipped. A second search yielded a jar of honey. Liberally lining the bottoms of both goblets with the golden-brown goo, she then poured brandy into each, filling them halfway. She found what could pass for a cup – made of tin – and spooned tea leaves inside. While waiting for the kettle to boil, she sliced a lemon in half. Once the steam sang through the spout, she poured water over the tea leaves, stirred, then added the tea to the brandy and squeezed half of the lemon into both goblets. She stirred them, took a sip of one, and smiled at the pleasant warmth that soothed her insides. Though she didn't know how to cook, Madame had at least taught her how to make a good hot toddy.

She approached the bedroom and the bed, at once noticing that Erik had kicked off the thick velvet coverlet. His hair was tousled on the pillow, his shirt had come the rest of the way undone – had he ripped at it in his fretful slumber? – and now she could perfectly see the soft tufts of hair that dusted his glistening chest and gathered midway in a thin trail to disappear into the waistband of his trousers.

She barely managed not to drop the goblets.

Taking in a deep shaky breath, she set the toddies on the bedside table and returned her attention to him, couldn't take her eyes off him. His skin shimmered as pale as alabaster from a life spent indoors, the muscles beneath not bulky like some men's in the chorus – but solid and very well defined. She had never seen him so utterly disheveled, so entirely _male. _Never had seen so much of his flesh – his build trim and firm, not an ounce of spare – and the sight made her catch her breath in a sudden warm rush of longing so strong that she clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms and she wondered if they bled. Dazed, she wondered what other mysteries his clothing concealed. The drawings had not told all. What was surprising, her wicked rumination didn't shock her, as it would have before.

The need to gather her unsteady thoughts back into alignment caused her to remember why she was there. She sank down to the edge of the mattress.

"Erik?"

He slept, but not peacefully, his lips softly forming words she couldn't hear. If not for the toddy he must drink to help him, she would let him sleep. She moved closer, putting her hand to his shoulder. His words still came faint but were now discernible.

"Persia … not tell her …"

Christine's brow grew troubled when she realized he was having a nightmare.

"_You cannot make me __– no __… Daroga __… damn you__… away __…"_

"Erik!" She gently shook his arm, then harder when he didn't awaken.

"_I cannot __… lose her __…"_

Moving her body close, she leaned over him, the fevered heat from his bared chest radiating in waves that scorched her exposed skin, and she wrapped her hands around solid muscle and shook him by both arms.

"ERIK!"

His eyes flew open, for an instant exhibiting startled terror, his body flinching backward in the bedding by instinct, before realizing it was Christine who leaned above him.

"I was asleep?" he questioned after a moment, his voice a low rumble that undulated through her, making her feel weaker than she already did.

"Y-you were dreaming." Shaky to be so close to him in such a state and after her most recent thoughts, she released his arms and straightened to sit beside him. "It didn't sound like a nice one."

"No …" He grew distant, the shutters falling over his fever-glazed eyes.

"I brought you the hot toddy." She hesitated. "Do you need help sitting up to drink it?"

"I am not an invalid."

His arms shook badly as he used them for leverage, and twice she barely refrained from reaching over and giving him aid, knowing he wouldn't take the gesture well, but at last he sat with his back against the shell frame. He took the goblet from her, looked into it then took a sip. She tried not to look at what his open shirt revealed but found it impossible, her eyes straying to his bared skin more than once. The warmth staining her cheeks – she feared permanently – she cleared her throat.

"Do you like it?"

"Yes." His eyes lifted to hers. "But you should not be here."

She frowned in hurt puzzlement. "You brought me here."

"An unfortunate mistake. You should not be here. Should not be near me. Like this …"

Her brow cleared in relief that he only thought of her health. "I've helped tend to Meg on occasion. I never get ill."

"Neither do I," he retorted dryly.

She looked down into her toddy. "You need not concern yourself over me, Erik. I also made myself one of these, as a precaution."

He said nothing, only took another long drink and pulled the cup away from his mouth, staring straight ahead toward the foot of the bird-shaped bed.

She hesitated, uncertain if she should speak, then looked at him. "What's in Persia?"

He grew very still. His face seemed to grow even paler, but in the dim light of one distant candelabrum and against the ivory porcelain of his mask, she couldn't be sure. "Why do you ask?" He didn't look at her.

"You spoke of Persia. In your sleep."

He flinched. "It was a dream. Nothing more."

He took another drink of the toddy, clearly upset by her persistence. When the silence became uncomfortable, she sighed and concentrated on finishing her own drink. She felt it must have been more than just a dream for it to affect him so strongly, but it had been a trying day of never-ending practice and stern tongue-lashing and she had no desire to initiate another argument. Relaxing warmth soothed the chill from her bones and made her pleasantly drowsy. She looked with longing at the empty space beside him.

"Erik?" She waited for his response. When he failed to answer, she went ahead. "Do you sleep in it too?"

He turned to look at her, his eyes half-closed. Though the warning that flickered in the murky storm of their gray-green depths made it clear he understood the question.

"Why do you ask, Christine?"

If she told him that he didn't have to, he would only become angrier and likely cite a litany of explanations about being a beast, a monster, a demon – or all three. She had no wish to hear any of that again, nor did she desire to see him upset. But she didn't wish to see him suffer either.

"If you would like," she started carefully, "that is, if you have a more … comfortable mask, I will retrieve it for you. And the solution to remove the paste for that one."

He stared at her, his expression indefinable and she squirmed.

"I know that regardless of what I say you still wish to continue wearing a mask when I'm with you, and I don't want it to adversely affect you … your face. That is," she floundered over her words hoping he wouldn't misconstrue her intent. "Your skin. I don't wish you to endure any unnecessary suffering because of my presence here."

For a moment she didn't think he would answer, and she sighed, looking into her empty goblet.

"Near the mini stage, the table with the mirror, there is a blue jar of solvent and a small artist's spatula, thin, white …" His eyes flickered closed and he opened them again as if with force, clearly fighting off sleep. "Also a black mask. Bring them to me."

Relieved he would comply, she set her goblet down and went to retrieve the items. She wondered how he intended to treat the entirety of their life together. Would he always feel the need to wear a mask, always sleep in one? She frowned at the thought as she gathered the materials. The masks he fashioned did give him an aura of mystique, his full appearance utterly captivating, but she wished for him to feel comfortable in her presence without one. That he didn't, and she was the cause, fell like a double blow to her heart.

She returned and handed him the materials, noticing he had finished his toddy. She took his goblet and hers, leaving the bedroom to give him the privacy she knew he would demand. She set both goblets on the small table as a quiet statement, moved the chair around with its back to the wall and facing the lake, found another chair nearby, brought it to sit beside the other one, sat down, plucked an apple from a bowl and ate it, before she felt enough time had passed. For all her newborn confidence, at the foot of the stairwell to the bedchamber, she hesitated like a lost child.

He must have heard her steps come to an abrupt halt on the stones for he called out, "It is alright, Christine. You may enter." His voice came groggy but still held the rich nuance that caused tiny shivers to tingle along her spine every time she first heard it.

Once inside the bedroom, she stared. His new choice of the black mask with a slight shimmer to it covered both sides of his face stopping midway at his cheekbones, but was made of what appeared to be a soft satin or silk and for that she was glad. It, along with his current state of undress, gave him the look of a dangerous, indolent bandit, and she caught an unsteady breath.

"Thank you, Mon Ange," he reached for her hand hanging at her side and barely squeezed her fingers. "I am a boor."

Whether it was the brandy that loosed his tongue or a penitent heart, she didn't know, but before she could answer what resembled his form of an apology, his eyes again fell closed.

Christine stared at him long after his breathing grew even and peaceful. She found it enthralling to watch Erik sleep, noting how his mouth softly parted and relaxed, the faint lines of anger and bitterness faded from their corners. He had been to her a Guardian Angel and now, in a twist of fate, she had become his, to watch over and care for him. She wondered if anyone ever cared for him in his past and a great sorrow clenched her heart that he'd never known his mother's love. At least she had childhood memories, faint though they were, but he had nothing.

Her eyelids began to droop. She looked down at the snug gypsy costume she wore for their twilight meetings then thought longingly of the bundle she had brought with her. The dress would hardly be comfortable to sleep in. He had seen her in her nightdress before, and, given his condition, she would probably wake long before he did.

With her decision made, Christine retrieved her bundle and modestly went behind the bed to a small alcove that stood out of sight. She did not want to run the risk of him opening his eyes and catching her in the middle of changing – though the probability was doubtful when she remembered how difficult it had been to wake him. Once ready for bed, she crawled in beside Erik, keeping distance between them, and pulled the covers to her chin. She braved a look in his direction.

He did not stir, did not even know she was there. She began to relax and rolled to her side to watch him as he slept. Her Angel … With a soft smile, she reached across the velvet sheeting, resting her fingers against his sleeve at the bend of his arm. Weariness overtaking her, at last she closed her eyes.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Mean writer, me. Making Erik sick. He really shouldn't have gone into that icy mist without a fedora and then to have no sleep for 3 nights was sure to lower his immunity - tsk tsk. And now Christine is there to take care of him. (heh heh) Okay, I'm really not a tease (well, not much) and since some of you are clearly wondering, a bit more clarification as to Erik's reasons for the wait, etc, will be apparent as story progresses ****… I like to drop little hints along the way, like a trail of bread crumbs leading to the candy cottage (er, wait, that turned out to be a bad thing, didn't it? hmm.) Well, I promise no wicked witch will grab them and throw them in the boiling cauldron - I really don't think you'll be disappointed when we get to that moment I know most of you are waiting for. lol**

**Please comment if you have any thoughts to share****… 0-:-)**


	18. What Endless Longings

**A/N: Warning- this chapter is rated M, for a sexual situation in this story ****– and I tried to write that part of scene, glossing over its inclusion and making it somewhat light in nature, for those who might be put off by this sort of thing. (There's angst/drama in this story- but humor too. I just write it how it comes to me.). My aim isn't to offend, only to tell an entertaining story- so if you don't want to know, just read to the part where Erik leaves the bedroom then skip to the section break ****– the xXx ****– and read from that point in C's POV. This occurs only in first part of chapter and only once in story. You won't miss anything by skipping- those who do skip, just know that poor Erik is having a very hard time. ;-) (I am so mean to my characters****… tsk tsk - *angel face) Much, much, MUCH thanks to my beta, Nightsmusic- you are awesome, lady! :)**

* * *

**What Endless Longings ...**

**Chapter XVI**

**.**

Erik woke to a dimly lit world of disjointed reality, at first not knowing where he was or why he still wore a mask. The raised canopy above his head placed him in the bed he'd crafted for Christine, but the incredible soft warmth cosseting his body on his right side did not belong to the velvet sheeting.

Like a slumbering kitten, Christine curled into him, her slender arm wrapped across his bare middle, her hand nestled just inside his shirt. Skin to skin, she touched him, her flesh warm and soft. His heart pounded …

And he remembered.

He had no concept of the passage of the hours, but he'd grown worse before he became better. Christine had been at his side through it all, tenderly wiping his face and chest with a wet cloth to help break the accursed fever. Her touch had felt like heaven while his body had broiled in hell. He had never been so vulnerable, and never with her. Like a shaky day-old cub, he had struggled to seize his strength, always failing. God, his stomach had purged itself and she had been there, had cleaned up the foul mess! His mortification had been immediate but his damnable weakness barred any ability to turn from her in shame, the need soon again proving vital to rely on his Angel's strength. And she _had_ been to him an angel of mercy, her sweet comfort a balm to his tortured flesh, despite his continual agitation for her to see him as less than the dominating and powerful Phantom she first met …

_Dominating? Powerful?_ Hah! Such an inadequate description made Erik miserably scoff at the mockery that had become his life since her return to him weeks ago.

He was reminded daily that he was fast losing a seemingly endless battle when it came to Christine. That truth pounded through his brain as he recognized his current position. He had never awakened to find her lying beside him – now he was lucid enough to realize she was there. How long had she stayed? How many nights had she slept near? Burrowed into him? Draped around him. Her warm leg entwined with his, and her barely covered thigh softly touching his thrice-damned hardened shaft that now felt as if it might burst from the confines of his barely fastened trousers.

_Damn!_ He shut his eyes. _Damn! Damn! Damn!_

Clearly, his health had rallied, though it might very well become the death of him. He wanted her now more than ever!

She murmured in her sleep, the sound sweet and innocent, and wriggled her hips slightly, nestling deeper into him.

Yes. He was sure he would die.

Certainly, death would be preferable to this earthly purgatory of wanting her but not yet being able to have her. Through his clothing he could feel the alluring heat of her body, the press of her soft curves, and knew she wore the bed gown. The bed gown that covered nothing but her enticing, bare skin beneath…

DAMN!

He reminded himself of why he should not – could not – _must not_ – pin her to the bed, awaken her with his passion and claim her without further delay. She was untried, so was he, the hour, that slothful hour, still on the distant horizon. For himself, he could take her in a bed or on the ground, whatever the day or night, at any given hour or moment, and it would be certain bliss. Just to touch and kiss her, to feel himself inside her, to experience _what that meant_, the mystery he once thought never to have. But he wanted _her_ _first experience_ to be unparalleled, all that she ever imagined. He did not want her to have any cause for reproach or regret, instead desiring to fulfill all of her wistful hopes and fantasies; those whispered and understood. He had locked them within his heart over the past months, even through the years. He had put the plans in motion – and by God, he would see them through!

His trembling had nothing to do with any vestige of illness as he carefully extricated himself from her warm, supple body. He almost groaned at the difficulty of leaving her then did groan when he followed desire instead of discretion and looked back to the bed.

She lay in sweet repose, having shifted to lie on her back. Her hair lay in a glorious confusion of thick, messy curls all about her shoulders. Her flawless white legs were curled to one side, exposed to a few inches above her knees, where the unholy bed gown had ridden up and barely concealed the rest of her to his widening gaze.

He took a mindless step forward then immediately backed up, almost dizzy with the hot blaze of lustful need that thrummed through his blood. Which all seemed to be collecting toward one point of his body.

Bloody hell! He would perish, self-combust, if he did not get out of here. NOW!

Somehow, he made it out of the bedroom alive. His body was weak from his illness, save for the lower part of his anatomy. _That _part of him throbbed its dark demand with aching persistence. He clutched the wall at the bottom of the stairs. Usually, after any seductive dreams of her, he could overlook the need and allow the passage of minutes to soften his engorged flesh.

But today, the minutes passed without relief. Time had thrown down the gauntlet, callously mocking his distress.

He had never woken up to the reality of a woman lying beside him in the flesh. Not any woman. _The_ woman. No dream, this … a soft, warm, voluptuous maiden who snuggled into him as if he were her favorite blanket …the innocent woman he loved and adored above all else and would give the entirety of the world to … his angel, his beloved, his goddess… Christine.

He could not stop thinking about her, could not stop wanting her …

… and she was only a short staircase away.

DAMN IT ALL TO HELL, he was going to die if he did not find relief soon.

To focus on his need of her prolonged the torment, but he could think of nothing _but_ her. Though she yet slept he could not risk her waking and finding him, not like this, and he sought seclusion in the utter darkness of one of the distant corridors. The need would not depart from him, too great and painful to ignore. It had never been this bad, not that he could recall.

Hating his weak flesh for the relentless urge he could no longer suppress, he freed himself from his trousers, which clearly in his feverish state, he had not done a good job of lacing when necessity had demanded relief in other ways. Thank all the gods in the universe Christine had not been witness to that either! He had somehow summoned the strength to stagger to that chamber, and now better understood her complete chagrin when he'd caught her, days earlier, attempting to do the same.

If only he could summon such strength again! The strength to resist this, what seemed a betrayal … to resist her … but a harsher betrayal would be to follow through with this mad desperation of burying himself deep inside her soft warmth as every inch of his throbbing flesh ached to do.

Closing his eyes, he thought only of his Angel. He thought of her beautiful body and her incredible warmth, of how she rested against him, so trusting, so willing in his arms. His breaths unsteady, he leaned his shoulder against the cave wall and desperately worked to find reprieve … He thought of her ripe breasts and the pleasure he had gained in suckling them through the bed gown. Thought of the day when there would be no damnable, unholy bed gown to block his way. Thought of tasting the entirety of her supple body. Thought of the silky wet heat his fingers had oh so briefly grazed among her soft curls in the chapel, thought of the day when he would plunge into that heat and bury himself completely inside her with no "brief" about it … thought of her beneath him … above him … surrounding him ….

_Christine!_

His body at last shuddered with relief but his heart and mind knew no such peace. He collected his breath and his thoughts, before firmly adjusting and refastening his clothing then pressed his hand against the wall. Bowing his head to the stone, he closed his eyes in disgust, reminding himself that though he did not know the exact date, at last count, only twelve days, eleven hours, and mindless minutes remained until he could engage in pleasures far more worthy of his pursuits …

That is, if she agreed. If she asked for more time, he wasn't sure he would survive another day or night without her.

.

**xXx**

.

Upon remembering where she was, Christine stretched her body with a sleepy smile.

Upon realizing that Erik's warmth was missing, her eyes flew open in startled awareness.

She sat up in his bed, distressed he had left and embarrassed he had been the first one awake and had seen her there, and in such a disheveled state of undress this morning … this evening? The passage of time ceased to exist in this exotic underground world of cavern, candlelight, and water.

She had tended him during the rare times he was awake and often long after he slept, gently bathing his face and chest with a damp cloth, sleeping beside him when she grew weary. Numerous times she wished for Madame's presence, fearing for him when his fever dangerously soared, also fearing to leave his side and take the journey above to seek help, afraid that once she left his condition would then deteriorate, as if her continued presence there was mandatory to keep him stable.

It had happened with her father. She had left the room and moments later he died, a torment she had never been able to fully relinquish. Once she grew out of childhood, she realized she wasn't at fault, and now it was foolish, perhaps, comparing the two situations – Erik had no cancerous sores over his body as her father suffered at the last – but she couldn't help her feelings. So she continued to do all she knew: administering tender aid, leaving the room only for brief periods and when she did always listening for any change in sound from the bedchamber, praying his health would return and that help would soon arrive. Often she looked toward the closed gate, as if willing her ballet mistress's entrance there, certain at some point she would come looking for Christine once she discovered her former student missing. But she never appeared.

Hot toddies and poor attempts at porridge didn't seem like much, but had he been alone, Christine doubted he would have taken any nourishment or liquids in his stubborn insistence to believe he wasn't ill. He might have passed out at the organ, where he would have remained on the cold stone floor until he woke or worse, never woke again. She shivered at the thought, doubly thankful that she had been present at the onset of his illness.

In his feverish state, he again spoke in disturbed sleep, though not often and never again about Persia. Instead, he begged her never to leave him, tearing into her heart with his pleading words – then curtly ordered someone to take her and go, to take the boat and swear to him never to tell the secrets she knew of the angel in hell – and she furrowed her brow in concerned sorrow when she realized that he was reliving a moment from the shadow world he once visited. He had told her of that night of Don Juan, a harrowing event she wished he would cease to remember and she could just as easily forget.

Once the fever at last departed, her girlish modesty to create slight distance evaporated with her ever-increasing desire to be closer to him, the lure he held over her a mesmerizing force, even as he lay sleeping and unaware of her presence. His nightmares only served to brace her resolve to hold him in comfort, and she had never felt so safe and warm and at peace as when she cast aside all shy uncertainty and pressed herself against his side, holding him close beneath the velvet sheeting that covered them to their necks. Somehow, that made the situation feel more acceptable, their barely clothed bodies pressed together and hidden by the sheet, and she wondered if she would ever dispense with her childish modesty to behave like a complete woman with Erik but, most of all, wondered where such modesty had come from! She worked in a theater, for pity's sake, and especially of late wore costumes that covered less than her undergarments when she did wear those. Was her reticence due to the ambiguity of the future and the foreign idea of sharing her body with a man? With Erik …

Heat flamed through her blood and she felt it wise to concentrate on something less stimulating.

Oh, where had he disappeared to?

Her breath hitched when she thought of where she'd last seen him, in this bed, next to her …

Well, that was definitely NOT less stimulating.

She crawled from bed and left the chamber.

When had he gone?

_Where_ had he gone?

"Erik?" She approached the privy chamber with extreme caution.

"Erik?" she said more softly after a lengthy silence, and then braved a peek, fearing the illness might have returned and she would find him insensible and lying on the stones – but he wasn't there.

She went into the main room to find it cheerlessly empty. The glossy organ was silent, its talented maestro not playing a harmonious melody, its genius composer not creating his intoxicating operas. The chair before the mini-stage of the theater sat vacant, the master artist not at work sketching his elaborate designs. The chamber lay dismal and still. Even the lake no longer lapped faintly against the uneven shoreline.

Its owner is what gave the cavern life…Erik's dark, enigmatic presence making the very atmosphere pulsate with breathless expectation… his enchanting music causing the air and walls to vibrate in fervent entreaty, echoing to him with reverence his heavenly offering of notes. His mastery of elegance gave the concealed chamber of rock a refinement absent in any area of the theater. And even with the impressive gold statuary and exotic tapestries opulently scattered throughout the chamber to suggest a magical, hidden kingdom, without him there – it was only a room.

Christine idly stroked her hand over the crimson velvet of his lush throne, where his head would rest. She smiled faintly at his tendency to own such a furnishing that silently revealed the venturesome boy hidden inside the innovative man: always seeking to create and live in a fantastical world of imagination. King Hades of his underworld, and his Persephone hoped he would return soon.

Christine sighed. She wished for the comfort of being enfolded in his strong embrace. It had been a very difficult time, worse than it had ever been with Meg, and she needed reassurance he was again completely well.

A labyrinth of unknown tunnels led off behind the bedroom and another maze was concealed on the far side of the organ, where he might have gone. But she wasn't familiar with any of them and certainly didn't want to risk taking the path where she'd fallen, even if she didn't stray far enough that it would be considered equal to breaking her promise.

She took the staircases until she reached the opposite side of the organ, thinking she might find him asleep in a far corner. It had taken a tremendous amount of effort and determination to keep him in bed during the rare moments that came once the fever broke, when he'd been a little more lucid and tersely growled that he needed to finish the designs at his drawing board or instruct her in lessons, with the swift approach of her debut as reigning diva. She patiently assured him she had practiced … yes, she had worked on her breathing exercises. No, she didn't eat anything before. Yes, she first used lemon in water for clarity of her vocal chords…

Understanding his frustration with his weakened condition – Meg also was cross during her recoveries, fretful that she couldn't dance – Christine didn't remind her incensed Maestro that before her nightly lessons in his home, they had all taken place inside the chapel with no instrumental accompaniment, save for his violin and not always that. Years of blossoming under his tutelage had enabled her to muddle through this thorny period when he'd been ill, though she hoped never again to face an ordeal like it. She had been so frightened to see him so weak and helpless.

None of the secluded corners revealed her Phantom, and Christine moved to the wall that led to the second labyrinth of tunnels, pulling the thick curtain away. A corridor led into darkness, but from the flames of a torch burning brightly in the sconce near her arm, she could make out a thick, black drape hanging over the stones across from her, as if to conceal a doorway.

"Erik …?"

She began walking toward it when she heard distant splashing. She whirled around and peered out over the lake, noticing for the first time that the portcullis was raised, the curtains that had hidden it now drawn. The black edge of the gondola with its golden skull sitting on the prow glided into view.

"Erik, my love! I wondered where you had gone!" In her eagerness to see him, Christine ran to the edge of the shore. "I was so worried when I woke and you weren't there."

It wasn't her Phantom's masked face that came into view but the unsmiling countenance of Madame Giry.

Christine gasped out a greeting. "M-Madame … I—I thought you were Erik.

"Clearly."

Her teacher looked her up and down from tousled curls to bare toes, and Christine realized with a sinking feeling that she still wore her bed gown. If the water weren't so cold, she might jump in and let it cover her past her head to hide from those ice-blue eyes that never missed anything from a slight misstep to a secret whispered during ballet instruction. The longer Madame stared with her brow raised in demand of an explanation, the more the prospect of a dunk in the chill waters appealed.

"Christine, stop gaping and get dressed," she said at last, bringing the boat to knock against the shore. "The Maestro asked me to come and collect you. He is presently engaged with work and will be busy for the remainder of the day."

"Oh. Alright. I …" Christine blinked, disappointed that she wouldn't see him, walked to the first staircase, then looked back. "He was very ill. I had no choice but to stay. I – I thought of coming for you … but assumed you would come looking for me."

Madame sighed at the unexpressed query. "He explained the situation. Had I _been able_ to reach this lair, I would have come earlier. On the second day, when he did not bring you back, I did attempt it, but the only two passages I know that lead down to the cellars and his home need access by boat – which he had here." She gestured to the gondola that again sat in its usual spot near his work area.

Christine vaguely nodded. She didn't fail to note the disapproval thick in her ballet instructor's words. Then it hit her.

"_Second_ day?"

"You have been down here three days and four nights." At Christine's clear shock, Madame added, "Do not fear, the managers have no idea of your absence. They are new to the arts and likely will take little notice of you until rehearsals begin for the new production, since you will then be their star. They noticed you went missing after your debut, only because the reporters requested an audience with you."

Christine nodded but didn't feel reassured. She could feel Madame's eyes burn into her skull as she entered Erik's bedroom. From Madame's brusque words she sensed that her ballet teacher shared Erik's opinion of the managers' incompetence to run a theater. But then, junk did not need to be tended, and that was all they knew how to look after.

Christine made quick work of tidying up, washing her face with cool water from the basin and rubbing her teeth with a soft cloth to clean them. Quickly she dressed and gathered her bed gown in a canvas bundle, deciding not to waste precious minutes with brushing out her wild riot of curls in an attempt to tame the tangled mass. Sometimes, like this morning, she wished she had Meg's head of straight silky hair, which obeyed the stiff bristles at the first swipe of a brush. Wrinkling her nose at her reflection in a mirror leaning against the far wall of the bedchamber, Christine hurried to cover it back up with its tapestry and joined her taciturn instructor.

"You must be weary from rowing. I'll take over if you would like."

Madame looked as fit as always but for Christine to keep her body motionless on the bench seat she would go mad from uncertainty of what the next hour would bring. With something to do, at least her mind would be occupied.

Madame shrugged indifferently and sat down while Christine stood and poled them out of the lair and to the far shore. Unfortunately, for her, Madame sat facing her and Christine again felt her disapproval cutting through the silence like a knife. Finally, she could take it no longer.

"Am I dismissed from the company, Madame?"

Her teacher's eyes were devoid of emotion. "Why should you ask such a question?"

Christine swallowed nervously. "Because of your rule not to engage in illicit …" She didn't think the exertion of pushing the pole through the water brought such heat flooding through her skin. "That is, I mean, the rule about … men a-and women … and because of what happened to Marie, I thought perhaps –"

Madame's eyes grew wide. "Has he …" She paused, suddenly as awkward as Christine. "After the repeated warnings I gave him, tell me he has not seduced you and taken you to his bed!"

"No! That is …" Christine cursed the blush she knew colored her face. "We _have_ slept in the same bed – when he was ill … but we only slept together. That is – apart …" She dropped her eyes to the water when she remembered how she had so fully nestled into his warmth. Oh, how she wished Madame was facing the other way! What sadistic tendency –and it must be that – prodded her into self-inflicting this conversation? "I just … I thought, that is I thought you might think there had been more …"

The betraying flush crept all the way to Christine's hairline and beyond when she remembered their passionate encounter _in that bed_ and in the chapel of all places and she hoped Madame would attribute any deepened ruddiness to the exertion of poling the boat to the opposite shore. "A-and I just wondered if I still would be allowed to dance in the company during these few days I have left to do so," she ended weakly. An icy dunk was looking better by the moment. Maybe she could swim to shore and cool her heated skin at the same time.

Madame didn't speak immediately. "Christine, it isn't only about the dance. I made that rule to protect my girls. Too many of the men living in our midst do not … respect women as they should, and I would not wish any of you to suffer from a reckless decision made, as Marie has suffered. It was to my regret that I had to let her go and at Monsieur Lefevre's insistence. She could no longer dance, while with child, and to allow her to stay in any other capacity would have sent the wrong message to others in the chorus. Had I not been firm, it could have caused greater problems, the girls taking advantage of my leniency. Do you understand?"

Christine dumbly nodded, not sure she understood anything anymore.

Madame let out an exasperated breath with a little shake of her head. "Oh, I am well aware that despite my rules there are those foolish enough to carry on behind my back, thinking I don't know of their late night rendezvous'. But with the rules in place and my position firm, the less brazen girls will become less likely to be hurt or to share in a fate like Marie's. Though it might relieve you to know, Marie and her infant son are doing quite well. She works as a kitchen maid at the home of an acquaintance I visited recently. Sadly, however, most do not end up as fortunate as Marie …"

Christine looked with amazement at her teacher. She hadn't thought Madame cared so strongly, she hid it so well. And Christine felt somewhat remorseful to have misread her intentions, now thinking perhaps it was because of Madame that Marie had found a new home at all, but mostly she felt stunned to have Madame confide in her, as she might to any woman. No longer speaking to her as a child.

"I know the Maestro loves you and you love him. Indeed, I have never seen such intensity of emotion that two people display for one another in all my years of working in this theater. I know your plans are to share one lifetime together, not one pointless tumble in secrecy. And while I do not condone the Maestro's arrangement of these nightly lessons and feel they can only lead to certain trouble, I am nonetheless assured that he will act appropriately concerning you, and likewise I have faith in your judgment. You are headstrong at times, yes, but you are intelligent and learn quickly."

"Thank you, Madame." Christine's words were soft with wonder. To her absolute shock she found herself speaking what she never intended to say. "There are times with him, moments, when I wish. When I do wish he would … touch me a-and hold me." Her hands trembled so on the pole, she was surprised she didn't drop it in the lake. Had she just admitted so shocking a confession to her guardian and teacher? She hurried on, "I-it's all I can think about. Being close. No matter where we are at the time. Is-is that wrong?"

Madame also seemed ill at ease and regarded her answer carefully. "It is natural to have … strong feelings for the one you love and not at all incredible to understand. The Maestro is more enigmatic than most men. He has lived his life cloaked in deep secrecy, weaving a seduction without being aware, it has become so much a part of him. Indeed, I do not think you can separate the man from the mystery. It enthralls. It fascinates. He is passionate in his work and his character, but I fear his passion can also become turbulent and dark …" A frown of worry creased her brow. "It is why I felt the need to warn him many times over, concerning you. He is not an easy man to get through to, when he wants something so strongly. And while he will never cause you harm, of this I am certain, he can only be pushed so far. Take care, Christine, not to push him beyond his limits, especially during such a time as this."

Shaken by her somber warning, Christine nodded dumbly as the boat glided to shore. She climbed out, setting the pole in place, and tied the rope around a jutting rock as she had seen Erik do. Madame followed her onto shore and pulled one of the torches from the holders.

Together they ascended to the fourth cellar.

"Christine …" Her teacher hesitated, her manner again jittery, as she would not meet her eyes. She focused her full attention on the path before them as her torch lit the way. "As you are soon to be wed, you must have … uncertainties … involving the wedding night."

Once again Christine felt the fire singe her face and also quickly directed her attention forward. She had hoped the awkward discussion was concluded.

"You must learn some things for yourself. No one can tell you what you will experience." Madame cleared her throat. "There is a poem I wish to share with you that might help." As she walked she began to recite:

"'_All nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair __–_

_The bees are stirring - birds are on the wing __–_

_And Winter slumbering in the open air,_

_Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!_

_And I the while, the sole unbusy thing,_

_Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing__…'_

_Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,_

_Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow._

_Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,_

_For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!_

_With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:_

_And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul__…?_'"

As they climbed to the upper floor, Christine stared at Madame in curious wide-eyed confusion, not sure what nectar or honey or bees or birds had to do with the mysteries of the wedding night. But greatly relieved that Madame had changed the subject even so.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: credits: "Work Without Hope" (poem above)- Samuel Taylor Coleridge ****– 1825. It has been strongly suggested though not proven that this is where the "birds and the bees" reference came from. The time and origin for it coming into use to explain the sexual act to one's children was indeterminate, but I used a bit of artistic license since I felt like Madame might have read the poem by this popular British poet of the day and formed her own opinion. ;-)**

**Trivia: In this time period, discussions such as the one Madame and Christine had did not happen or rarely. Some things were just not considered suitable to talk about, even in private between family members. Daughters could count themselves fortunate to receive any motherly wisdom before their wedding night, but often it was something as vague as, "Just close your eyes, dear, and endure it. It will soon be over." lol ****– however, since Madame and Christine both live daily in a theater whose habits are tawdry, I felt a conversation such as the one above could have realistically taken place and not OOC. I also feel that the usually cool and collected Madame would have still been nervous to speak of such things, especially since this would be her first time to do so. (She sure was a lot of help to Christine there at the end, wasn't she? ;-))**

**Thank you so much for all your wonderful reviews for past chapter - please keep it up. :) I love to know what you guys are thinking...**


	19. In the Dungeons of my Black Despair

**In the Dungeons of My Black Despair**

**Chapter XIX**

**.**

The Phantom lowered himself from the flies and down the rope, dropping into the space between walls as he had done each day for the past week. Today he met with success, noting a patch of rectangular gray on the dark stone floor. As he had instructed, the envelope lay in its designated spot.

With a quick, angry flick of his wrist he swooped up the letter with his glove and continued along the corridor winding down to his lair. It had been three days since the sickness had left his body and three days since Christine left his home.

She had not been the least bit accommodating when he met her at the mirror door that first night and stiffly told her, without giving his reasons, that they would continue her lessons in the old practice room. He had since left her there, moments ago. It had been her hurt and angry image reflected twenty times over that now surrounded him and tore at his soul, as had been the case during the entire practice session while he played his violin and tried to ignore all the Christines in the room, glaring at him with wounded brown eyes. In those moments he had cursed himself thrice over for duplicating his chamber of mirrors in that room.

She had dutifully sung her scales and warm ups, moving with precision into the arias, but the tension had crackled between them with each sweep of his bow on the strings and each word she had sung. Foolish woman – it was for her own sake that he refused to take her below, and he repeatedly drowned out the coaxing whisper of temptation that less than a week from this day, such pathetic attempts of principle would fail to matter. He had worked equally hard to dismiss thoughts of grabbing her, kissing her into hungry submission and taking her against one of those many alluring and angry reflections.

"_What are six trifling days when compared to such considerable torment?" _the reckless fiend of Temptation whispered._ "Give in to the desire ..."_

NO. He was determined to do this as HE had planned, not as his wretched body demanded. He had waited two infernal years for her; he could endure a matter of days. And confound all the fates if he would again put her reputation at risk or increase his torment by taking her to his lair before _that hour!_ Nor would he risk future plans with her by putting himself in a position where she might again overhear his damnable nightmares! Which led to his next problem.

He approached the first cellar, his stride purposeful as he considered the matter.

Though he didn't plan to be ill again – a wretched weakness he had no time for – to swear off sleeping ad infinitum was preposterous. To sleep as he had done, intolerable once she was there. He damn well intended to share that bird-shell bed with her. What he hoped to avoid, in never telling her, he now saw as insanity. The likelihood that she would overhear him in his sleep again after the one and only time they shared that bed was immense. Yet the other option, to tell her, was not viable either. He would need to create a plausible excuse for the existence of such a nightmare, a story of horror perhaps? She loved tales of magic and lore.

As for the wretchedly useless scrap of black silk he'd created as a mask to sleep in … it had been to his horror to later recall it had slipped out of place during one of his feverish ramblings. Had she seen anything?

Damn.

_Angel of Music, you deceived me __…_

His eyes flew wide at the mournful whisper of her song that trembled inside his mind – the remembered shadow of that future – of her fear and torment that he had inflicted through his selfish ruse. Of the tears in her selfless kiss, her pain, her agony, the disillusionment that had shimmered in her eyes – no! That was a different world, a different reason for pretense. He withheld the truth only to protect them both – he could never lose her! Not now that she'd given him the will to live and dream again …

As he took the winding stairs down to the second cellar, with unerring resolve his mind led him back to the nightmare, with a Daroga he didn't recognize commanding him he must tell her the truth. And then memory twisted down another hellish path into the reality of a past he could never relinquish:

.

_The Phantom slipped into Box Five, as silent as the shadows that concealed him. A small, dark man with dusky skin and wearing spectacles sat in the seat ahead and stared at the stage where the young ballet rats practiced under Madame's stern tutelage._

"_Daroga, you wished to see me?"_

_The Phantom couldn't help a swift little thrill of wicked pleasure to see the Persian jump in startled fright and twist around in the seat, upon hearing the ghostly voice directed in his ear. "Erik! One of these days you will cause this old heart to stop beating. You always did know how to enter a room in a manner that would put any respectable magician to disgrace. I wonder, though, that you can never seem to remember I have a name__…."_

_The Phantom waved aside the man's wry words with a little grunt of displeasure. "It is ventriloquism and you did not answer the question."_

"_And how are you this fine day, Nadir? I am well, Erik, and how are you? It has been what, five years? Yes, I believe it has been that. Would you care for some tea, perhaps a game of chess __…?"_

"_If you would prefer to hold a conversation with yourself, be my guest. I will leave you to it."_

"_Ah, then, may I assume that at last I have received an invitation?"_

_The Phantom scowled and moved to go, but the Daroga's next words stopped him cold._

"_I hear the opera has a resident ghost."_

_At the mild disapproval that coated his words, the Phantom turned and frowned. "And if it has?"_

_As though oblivious to his rising ire, the Persian continued in a blithe tone as if he were discussing the rising price of the tea he had prompted the Phantom to offer him. "I had a most extraordinary encounter with one of those little dancers a couple of days ago. Christine, I believe her name is? Such a charming child. That is her dancing there, yes?" _

_He nodded in her direction and the Phantom tensed. He had no need to look. He had been watching her all afternoon._

"_She had a most interesting story to tell. I happened to hear her sing and asked her where she received such a beautiful voice. She smiled and told me that her Angel of Music gave it to her. He comes to visit her in the chapel every night. He sings to her there and tells fascinating stories though she cannot see him. Then she became quite shy and said she shouldn't have spoken, that it was all a big secret. Do you not think that most interesting?"_

_The Phantom clenched his hands at his sides. "If you have a point to make, bloody well make it and go."_

_He sighed. "You are a man of many titles, Erik. Magician. Ghost ... Angel. But I fear, my friend, that you have learned to hide behind your titles too well and never know when to dispose of them. You should not deceive the child. What do you hope to gain from it?"_

"_I do not need to explain my purpose to you. I did not ask you to come here."_

"_No. It seems if anyone wishes to see you, they must leave a note __– or is it you who leaves them one?" He spread his hands wide in apology. "Alas, I have forgotten. The memory does that with age."_

_The Phantom was damn well certain the Daroga remembered every bit of what he'd heard._

"_I cannot help but fear for the little one. In this short time of knowing her I see how trusting and gullible she is for having lived in a theater. She is what, twelve? I ask you again, Erik, what do you hope to gain by such a ruse?"_

"_Careful, Daroga, or have you forgotten? One of those titles you so carelessly omitted was Assassin." His low words came sharp and menacing. To his satisfaction the Persian's dark eyes flinched. He, alone, knew what the Phantom was capable of. Some remnant of lingering spite and pain had the Ghost add, "You of all people should know that you never need ask such a question of me! Or have you forgotten **that night** as well?"_

_The Phantom watched as the Daroga blanched. "No, my friend, I remember. May Allah forgive me, I wish I did not ..."_

_._

As the Phantom took the corridor to the last cellar, _he_ also wished to forget. But memories of the most recent nightmare followed by the recollection of one of his actual last visits with the only man to befriend him and help him escape from Persia's death sentence – led inexorably to the remembrance of _her_…

The Phantom quickened his pace, hoping that by doing so he could evade that specter of his past. He should have known that Memory was too cruel a jailer to let him loose from her iron leash so swiftly:

.

_Erik stared in horrified shock at the latest sadistic amusement of the Khanum's. Locked in a small bedchamber and stripped of his mask, he faced the trembling waif who had been shoved and locked inside the room with him._

_The child, for that is all she was, cowered against the door and did not look at him where he stood next to the bed, in shadows. Dressed in veils that covered nothing, her body was slight, her small chest undeveloped, the skin hairless between her shaking legs. _

_My God, she must not even be twelve!_

_He closed his eyes, knowing full well that if he did not surrender to the Shah's and Khanum's evil amusements, he would be made to suffer, knowing also that he would never partake in a scheme so horrendous. _

"_I have a gift for you," the Khanum's evil promise from that morning glided into his mind with a serpent's deadly grace. "To refuse would be an insult. You would not wish to insult me, master magician ..."_

_And, sickened, Erik now understood: Their sacrifice was an innocent child virgin to a nineteen-year-old monster who had never known a woman. Their amusement, to see if the child lived through the night after being with the beast._

_He had left the opera house, determined to see the exotic lands he had read about in the books Antoinette Giry had brought him. Instead, he had found within Persia another corner of hell._

_The child must have been a slave, perhaps a child of an enemy of the palace. He could think of no other reason the Shah's mother would force her to suffer such a terrible fate. Her head suddenly lifted and through a shining curtain of long black hair, she saw his tall figure standing in the shadows. Her midnight blue eyes grew rounder, her moon face paled._

"_Wh-who are y-y-you?" Even her voice was pure innocence._

_Some stirring of pity totally alien to him had Erik move slowly toward her, to reassure her that she would be safe. Before he could give his name, she saw his bared face, and in her terrified scream he remembered that he wore no mask._

_Ice chilled his veins. The cold in the room increased though the air outside was sultry. Other faces came to him, through a cage __– leering, mocking, yelling, in fear, in hatred __– flashing across his mind. Devil's Child! Living Corpse! Murderer! He remembered the endless years at the carnival, remembered Antoinette's horrified eyes when he last saw her at the opera house, remembered why he stood locked in a bedchamber in Persia, the Khanum's latest curiosity._

_Only humanity had the right to bear a name. Monsters bore only titles._

"_I am Death."_

_Her screams vibrated off the walls until she had no voice left and fell upon the exotic rug, wetting it with her frightened tears. Her face turned scarlet as she wrapped her thin arms around her heaving middle and curled into a tiny, protective ball, as if fearing he would touch her. _

_Instead, he went to sit on the edge of the bed, devoid of emotion, and watched her weep. After a time, with her rasping sobs catching in her throat, her ability to breathe grew harsher, and a morsel of pity for the Khanum's young victim returned. Trapped in a beast's cage, just as he had been trapped as a child, she too had been given no option. He sang to her, controlling his lyrical voice to control her emotions. A trick he had learned without a teacher. A gift he used as both comfort and weapon. She became calm under his spell, still and relaxed, her huge eyes blinking up at him in quiet awe until at last they closed and she peacefully slept._

_In the morning, the Daroga came and took the child away._

_In the afternoon, Death was punished for refusing to accept the sacrifice. _

_Later, he learned, the child was killed for not becoming the offering. _

_._

The Phantom clenched his teeth against the moisture gathering in his eyes. He would not, _would **not **_think of those first weeks in the palace again, when the Khanum tested him, tried to break him. Would not think of any part of the three years following, when she callously used him as her tool of destruction.

Reaching his lair at last, he concentrated only on Christine and thoughts of her.

Only twice had he used his voice to control her mind. Once to soothe, when he first came to her as her saving Angel – a role they both needed and he had desperately embraced to try to forget that he had been a murdering demon. Little Daae had been so frightened, as he called her then. Over the weeks, as his tender affection for her blossomed, he dared to think of her and call her by Christine. Monsters not only bore titles, they had no right to address mortals by name. Jacov had pounded that truth into his boyhood flesh with every crack of the whip, though the Devil's Child often rebelled and called him many things aside from "master" when again alone in his cage.

Christine had been a sweet angel, a child goddess, her pure voice mellowing something dark and twisted and desolate inside his soul. From the moment he saw her he knew she was different. Unique, gentle, giving and warm ...

And she had given back the part of himself that the little slave girl stripped away.

Christine had given him back his name.

Her insistence to hear it when she first returned to him and demanded that he remain her teacher, her continual use of it over the weeks, and lately her sweet manner of entwining it with endearments had led him once more to begin to think of himself as Erik. Perhaps not a monster, only a man. Perhaps ...

The second time he controlled her had been the night at the mirror, weeks ago, when he first pulled her into his world. In his great anxiety for her to see him as he truly was, a flawed being, not immortal, he had feared she would resist. But the moment he'd seen her smile in tremulous welcome, her eyes soften in delight, and heard her sweetly sing in amazement to be with him at last – the powerful Phantom had been shaken by a petite angel and released his hold over her. Still she had come with him and since that moment sought only to be by his side.

"Christine …"

His gentle whisper comprised all he felt for her with each beat of his heart, all the love he had for her. He no longer understood his roiling emotions that would cause him to treat her so severely, when she'd done nothing wrong.

Upon remembering the envelope in his hand, he pulled against the chains of past remorse, never able to break entirely free, and broke open the wax seal. One swift read of the detective's findings made his lips curl in contempt and his breaths come faster.

Harshly he crumpled the letter and threw it to the shore.

.

**xXx**

.

Upon being told by Meg that Madame wanted to see her, Christine approached her ballet instructor's office, still in a hopeless state of sullen confusion.

Madame was pacing the floor, giving frustrated taps of her cane every few steps, and for a curious moment Christine forgot her own problems. Madame hardly needed the cane since her posture was better than any dancer's in the company, and Christine and Meg both used to giggle, wondering if she slept on a board to have such a straight spine. The cane was no more than a tool of authority, once the walking stick her husband used, and as Madame heard Christine's step at the door, she whirled around gracefully, also in a manner defying need of a cane – and pointed her black stick directly at her.

"_Where_ have you been?"

Christine blinked in uncertainty at the quiet attack. "I had lessons with my Maestro. Did he not tell you?" She worked to keep the aggravation from surfacing in her tone. "We started using the old practice room as of three nights ago. Only a few hours at a time." Of course Madame must have known. Surely she had seen Christine lying wide-awake in her bed, arms crossed over her stomach and glaring at the ceiling, on those occasions when Madame glanced in the room to ensure all the girls were present and accounted for each night.

"Your lesson should have been over hours ago," Madame said, studying her with narrowed eyes and dropping the cane back down to thud against the carpet. "I was concerned when you did not appear with Meg to your dormitory. You should not be wandering the halls at night alone, Christine. It's not safe."

That's what _he_ had said! Yet for all his professed concern, he suffered no reluctance to leave her there tonight!

She didn't even remember what started the argument. Just that he had snapped at her, she had snapped back at him, which went on for a minute or more, and then an almost feral glow filled his stormy eyes as he grabbed her arms and gave her a powerful shake. They stared each other down for breathless seconds, the glow in his eyes incinerating to a blaze that took her breath away as the air shifted between them, the endless circle of mirrors reflecting his aggressive masculinity completely surrounding her, dwarfing her – yet hardly as impressive as the real flesh and blood man towering so close and exuding a dark passion that suddenly made her go weak in the knees. He pulled her closer, and her lips had softly parted, waiting for the promise of the hungry kiss she had seen brewing in his eyes.

To her hurt confusion, he hadn't kissed her at all but released her with a harsh little shove, turned on his heel, and barked out an order for her to return to her dormitory at once. Of course, after he left she'd been much too upset to do any such thing and marched through the old, abandoned wing for the better part of an hour, walking off her ire against the most cruel and impossible dark Maestro Phantom Fiend.

Madame wearily sighed. "I take it your lesson did not go well?"

Christine raised her eyes from glaring at a stack of papers on Madame's desk and gave a little tight-lipped shake of her head.

"I see."

Two words, but they contained a wealth of implication, and the fragile resolve to be emotionally strong crumbled. "I don't think he wants to be with me anymore."

"_That_ is entirely preposterous!" Madame almost laughed at the absurdity of such a statement but thought better of it at the woebegone look on Christine's face. "The man is so besotted with you he can see or think of nothing else!"

"I'm not sure that's still the case." Christine sniffed and blinked away the tears brimming in her eyes. She would _not_ cry again and have her eyelids puff up and face turn that horrid blotchy pink. It only encouraged more cruel whispers among several of the ballet rats who'd stood near her bed gossiping and watching her like a strange curiosity on the second night of his indifference, when she had not been able to hold in her grief any longer and cried into her pillow. Meg had gone to her and held her, telling the others to go away and mind their own business, but even with her friend's comforting presence, Christine still wished she could leave their cramped dormitory forever. Be with her Angel. In his lair ...

But he did not want her there.

"I assure you, Child, you are wrong."

Christine gave a sad little shrug.

Madame rolled her exasperated gaze toward the ceiling in an impatient gesture asking for divine guidance. She expelled a weary breath and returned her attention to Christine.

"Did anything happen between you two during those three days in his lair?"

"No. Well ... yes. He was upset when I insisted he lie down and we argued, but we've done that before. He wasn't happy about resting, but he did thank me for taking care of him."

Madame's eyebrows perched high at that disclosure.

Christine lifted her hands in confusion, spreading them wide. "I don't know what I did! His fever broke and he was better, though still very groggy. He asked me if I had practiced and I assured him I had ..."

Christine broke off, her eyes flaring wide as a memory struck. While he'd slept she had done more than practice the upcoming opera. She had studied pages of his lyrics of other operas, including the forbidden one he said he would never produce, committing those songs to memory as well. Perhaps she should not have done so, but she had so much time on her hands while he slept and didn't think he would mind since he admitted he wrote all of his operas for her. One day, surely, she would sing them. Besides, if he had discovered what she'd done and been displeased, he would most definitely have confronted her about it. He certainly hadn't failed to make his displeasure known on any other matter he disagreed with these past three days, which had been every scrap and morsel concerning everything she'd done!

"I woke to find him gone, and you came for me," she continued quietly, realizing Madame was staring at her, waiting for her to finish. "Later, he came to my dressing room and told me we would have lessons in the old practice room instead. Since the morning I left his lair, when you came for me, he treats me as if he doesn't even want to be in the same room with me."

And in the musty old practice room with its added distraction of a carousel of mirrors they practiced no more than the few obligatory hours required for a student with her teacher.

Part of her training had been that she must learn to ignore all distractions while singing so that no matter what happened while on stage she would move through any disturbance with grace. But she didn't think his choice of the disruptive setting was intended for that purpose. The previous two nights he escorted her back to her dormitory, without being seen, without being touched. Tonight he had drawn her close then pushed her away as if she were poison. Why? What wicked thing had she done to receive his scorn? She missed those long nights with him. The lessons, the duets, hearing him play, sleeping in his bed, the intimacy, the conversation, even their tense banter, which had been cordial compared to their curt and clipped dialogue of a barely leashed explosion these past three nights. She missed him horribly ...

But apparently he did not miss her.

She let out a defeated little breath, her eyes downcast. "May I go to my dormitory now?"

In the silence that answered, Christine continued to stare at the rug, following its graceful swirls of bold color with her eyes. A part of her mind noted its exotic design was similar to the tapestries in his lair and nowhere else in the theater were they repeated. Footsteps bridged the distance and Christine was surprised to feel Madame's fingers gently cup her chin, lifting it, so she would have to meet her pale blue eyes. They regarded her with calm but fervent determination.

"This matter will work itself out, Christine. No matter how bleak or impossible a situation may appear, the sun at some point always rises to break through the thick clouds of darkness. Yes, go and get some sleep. In the morning, things may not appear so terrible as they do now." She gave her an encouraging smile.

The quirk of a weak smile Christine gave in return was hardly reassuring. She nodded vaguely and left.

Madame stared after her a long moment, her lips thinning into a terse line.

"Well, Erik, what is rolling around in that so-called genius mind of yours? If _ever _there were two more stubborn souls in this universe …." She emphasized her point with another brisk thud of her cane on the rug and a disgusted shake of her head.

Work itself out? Hardly. It was time to give the matter a strong push. Nothing less would do when it came to the obstinate mule who lived five stories below.

Casting a harried glance at the piles of unfinished work on her desk, Antoinette Giry gave a little roll of her eyes to the ceiling and readied herself for the long walk down to the Fifth Cellar.

xXx

* * *

**A/N: FieryPen37 ****– that cane-tapping Madame was for you ****– ;-) ****… and for those who expressed a wish for more POVS ****– I hadn't thought I would, I wanted to keep it strict E/C with maybe a bit of other POV in same scene, at times, as I've been doing - but anyway, I found myself writing another one in****…will have to consider if I do the villains' or not ****… More of the mystery in the opera house will be coming soon ****– promise ****– but I have to fit it in with a certain timeline of events that will happen and I want to write it all a certain way, but keep the focus on E/C for this romance ****…**

**A note about Nadir - I had to include him in here somehow. He got such a bum rap in APCC (but I had no choice in order to go along with the Scrooge sort of storyline ****– the dead friend/associate warning him of the ghosts' visits, and other than Madame, Nadir had been Erik's only friend)- but I had to include him somehow "living", even if only in memory, and since I love banter had to dig into that a bit - ;-) ****…though this story does take SOME from Kay, I also developed my own ideas of what could have happened in Persia, etc, based on those characters and what little I researched of that culture, so no, it's not exact storyline she used, and I also had to make Erik younger in Persia, to fit with his age in this story, which in the present is the same as it was in PotO movie (31) - am just borrowing Kay's characters and idea for my own telling of similar backstory...**

**Thank you oodles and bunches for the reviews and comments and thoughts! :) Please keep them coming!**


	20. Down Once More

**A/N: ****A note about the Opera House for my story- it was NOT built in 1861 (like the Palais Garnier) For movie it wouldn't have been there for him to escape to as a child, since he lived there 22 years as movie showed and main part of movie was in 1870. So since this is based on movie too, like ALW/JS did, I took some artistic license and made the opera house older. (Though they never did say how old it was supposed to be) ****… much thanks to those who reviewed. *huggles***

* * *

**Down Once More**

**Chapter XX**

**.**

She had made the long descent to these cold, dark cellars numerous times throughout the course of the past twenty-two years. The first time had been a week after concealing him in the hidden web of corridors beyond the opera house walls, once rumored to be a passage for smuggling weapons. As a child she had heard the rumor quietly spoken between a stagehand and another but had not thought much of it. The prospect was hardly likely for a public opera house, though with a secret lake hidden far beneath perhaps the idea was conceivable. That Erik found entrance to the deep cellars she never knew existed, a hidden world cloaked in mystery and lore, like an ancient tomb from centuries past, had not surprised Antoinette. He was a boy, after all, three or four years younger than she by her guess, and little boys lived in adventures, her own brother a reminder of that.

What had surprised her was his genius creativity to make such beauty and artistry with the few things she'd brought him and that he himself smuggled into the cavern he made into his home. Except for telling her his name that first night, for weeks he said nothing and she might have thought him mute. Then one day as she approached his lair, she thought his skeletal body must have surrendered to this life and an angel had come to spirit him away, for the sweet mournful voice that came from his cavern was like no mortal's she'd heard. She came upon him, stunned to realize the seraphic music came from his own lips! He had stopped singing instantly, cringing against the wall as if he thought she might beat him, and it had taken another entire week before he spoke his first full sentences to her. "Please, mistress, I would like a book. A book on music." The strange plea of his angelic voice had come across both miserable and scornful, as if he feared her response and hated them both because of that fear.

Later, one book wasn't enough, and he asked for more of whatever she could find to bring him – music, the arts, stories from other lands, the classics – whatever piece of literature she could find to lend he took with uncommon relish. Her ballet teacher had been an avid reader with shelves of books collecting dust, so her quest was made easy. He read with amazing speed, retaining information with astounding ability and always demanding more. The very fact that the little dirty gypsy could read at all astonished her. More so when she later learned he taught himself, as he'd done with so many things. A true genius. A prodigy in all the arts. And yet, he looked like no dark gypsy she'd ever seen. His skin was pale as chalk, his eyes ever-changing, glowing mysterious shades of green and once he exchanged the cloth sack over his head for a mask he'd made, she had seen his hair, though very dirty, was a dark shade of fair.

He was to her a mystery, and at first she helped him out of pity. As the weeks elapsed, pity led to fascination. Theirs had been a strange alliance at first, a friendship of few words spoken. As he quickly grew into a man, his form still lean but taller and stronger, gaining hard muscles from his constant climbing and other strenuous acrobatics within the opera house he had used as his playground, her fascination with him grew. Had the gregarious Claude not come along to fill the chair of second violinist when she was fifteen and stolen her heart, at some future point she might have allowed a kiss as a girlish curiosity for someone who had then never touched the lips of another.

However, Erik, for all his quiet arrogance, withdrew when she came too close and often turned away at the touch of her hand, as if he feared or detested any form of physical contact. There had been no romantic love lost between them; they shared an understanding based solely on need. He needed her to help him survive, she needed to hear him sing, the beauty of his voice surpassing anything the theater had to offer – but all of that ended on the horrible night before he disappeared.

Antoinette closed her eyes and shook her head in remorse. She had been such a foolish child, even as a young mother of twenty-one, but when she went to seek him out to apologize, he had already gone.

Like that night, she again dared to seek him out now, despite that once he came back from Persia, he made it a stipulation that she was to come to his lair only by previous arrangement.

She remembered her shock to see him upon his return ten years ago. The withdrawn and curious waif she had known had disappeared, and in his place stood an imposing man of authority, as if he truly had become master there. He stunned Antoinette with his complete mastery of skills of all amusements in which he had only dabbled before and new ones he'd learned. But also he secretly terrified her with the overwhelming command of his presence. She had told him weeks ago she never once feared him. It was a lie. There were times since his return from Persia when a momentary dread paralyzed her heart.

Dear God, what had happened to him there? Gone was the quiet skinny youth with the soulful eyes that could tell a thousand tales of pain. Now an impressive man of culture and elegance haunted the opera house, his appearance and stature breathtaking, the darkness and danger that had become a part of him alluring, at times frightening – but those eyes … Those haunted changeable eyes she'd never forgotten had only hardened with anguish and bitterness, with sorrow and horror– no remnant of innocence left – at times threatening, often scornful, and she shuddered to think of all they might have seen.

To her shock, it wasn't this altered man she glimpsed hunching down by the shoreline as she poled through the open portcullis. The sad eyes of the forlorn and lost little boy she once knew lifted up to her. And in those eyes, as if he had been thinking only of her, was the tender look he reserved for one girl who lived and worked among them.

Christine.

Somehow the lonely child had reached deep into his soul, giving him comfort where Antoinette had failed. It was for that reason she felt it imperative to try to help Fate along and mend whatever had happened between the two tragic lovers.

She inhaled a studied breath as she watched his eyes change color and expression, as swiftly as the vaporous mist drifting near the rock shore. She affected her own bland expression, knowing he would never appreciate an outward show of pity.

"Maestro."

She expected an explosion of rage or barely concealed contempt at her unsolicited presence. His eyes did harden, but he only unfolded from resting on the soles of his boots and straightened to stand, his every movement like poetry. She lifted her chin to meet his eyes, as he stood a good two heads taller.

"Why have you come?"

"I …" She was momentarily diverted as she noticed with curiosity the stacks of metal piping that lay piled on the ground, a few left behind as though they'd been dropped. Larger and sturdier than the pipes he had used for his organ, they appeared to be made of iron.

His gaze went up the staircase to where she looked. "You did say it was cold here." She could hear the mockery coat his voice.

She looked at him in confusion.

"I decided to resume a project I abandoned before." He swept his hand to the pipes. "Once I finish, they will connect in a trail that leads up to the furnace room where the kilns for statuary are kept. I will save you the tedious logistics of how such an arrangement is executed, but suffice it to say that when it is complete, warm air will carry through the piping and enter the bedchamber. It will not encompass the whole of my dark and dreary dungeon, but it will nonetheless be an improvement."

She ignored his sarcastic reference to her earlier assessment of his home, once again completely astonished by his scope of intelligence. "Why did you abandon the project before?"

A shadow crossed his eyes. "Let us say I no longer felt a good reason existed and I have long learned to adjust to the cold."

"And now?"

"Christine should not be made to suffer as I have suffered. I do not wish to tempt the cruel hand of Fate by having her become ill, as I was ill. If it is within my power, I will do anything I must to ensure her stay here is a pleasant one."

She expelled a small breath of relief. "Then your plans have not changed."

"Of course not. Why would you make such an absurd remark?" He looked at her as if she were daft. Working for him for more than a score of years, she was indeed surprised he had not yet driven her to the state of madness.

"Absurd, monsieur? Hardly. Give thought to the manner in which you have treated your betrothed. Have you given her cause to believe that your feelings for her have not changed?"

He frowned. "I have done what is in her best interest."

"By ignoring and abandoning her, you consider this to be in her best interest?"

"I have _not_ ignored her. We meet for her lessons each night."

"Ah, yes. In the old practice room with the horror chamber of mirrors you created there, for whatever purpose. She has told me. Perhaps I should add _intimidating her_ to the list. And are those few hours of lessons the scope of your time together?"

"They are." He bit the words out through clenched teeth.

"Then, Monsieur, perhaps you have forgotten or fail to realize she is a young woman in love. She holds dreams of this idyllic time in her life that can so easily be punctured by a careless act or word spoken – or no words spoken at all. She needs more from you than these short and snappy lessons in the role of her teach –"

"MORE?" He stalked away and kicked aside a mislaid pipe. It rolled over the stone in clanging protest with a hollow metal sound that echoed through the cavern. "More." He turned to her again, a glint of warning anger in his eyes. "I suggest, Madame, that if you wish her virtue _to remain_ intact, you desist with persuading me to resume our twilight meetings here. Otherwise, if I were to succumb to your wishes for 'more', I cannot be held responsible for the extent of such an outcome."

"I see." She struggled to leave it at that, afraid she couldn't keep the condescension from her tone, though she feared it shone in her eyes, and looked askance.

"Yes," he replied, the sarcasm dripping off his tongue. "I see that you do. You wish me to say it? I can see by your manner how very hard it is to refrain from speaking the words. Very well. I will say them for you. You were right. I should never have kept her down here with me night after godless night. Never should have continued with such insanity! Wanting her so fiercely but not being able to touch her for all those damned _respectable_ reasons that with the break of each new dawn are looking less and less significant! All I wish for is to take her to that bed up there and make her completely mine!"

He was too incensed to be embarrassed by such candor. She was too experienced to be scandalized by the topic. After her awkward and revealing talk with Christine four mornings ago, and his terse behavior before that, when he told Antoinette to collect his protégé, she had expected as much. And she felt convinced that he now painfully understood what she had tried without success to warn him of weeks ago.

Being without human companionship for the entirety of his life, except what little he had gleaned from their appointed meetings and his ridiculous role as Christine's Angel, Erik could not have realized how difficult it would be to live in his beloved's actual presence, no longer as a ghostly entity but as a flesh and blood man. For someone of Erik's passionate nature, she imagined the situation had become twice as difficult. Having been married over a decade, she knew that men had a tendency to be ruled by their flesh, their physical needs at times beyond control, and she sympathized with him for his suffering, even if it had been self inflicted.

She said none of this aloud, of course, but in witnessing his titanic effort at self-discipline, all for the sake of Christine and her reputation, she experienced a new level of respect for this man so many feared. Something had happened to change his character in past weeks, even before Christine convinced him to resume his role as her teacher. Ever since the Yuletide, he had struggled to change his selfish attitude. And for the first time since he left for Persia, she felt her heart soften toward him, as it had in their youth. She stepped forward and laid her hand on his arm in understanding. Where before he would have stiffened or retreated, now he did neither but his eyes filled with shocked question.

"I finished with the arrangements you asked me to see to," she said softly. "It took a good amount of persuasion, but he has at last agreed. The remainder of items should present no problem."

A semblance of relief entered his eyes. "I am pleased that at last something is going as planned."

She patted his arm then dropped her hand back to her side. "Monsieur, allow me to speak once more. Not as your assistant or her guardian, but as … someone who cares. Christine has tormented herself with the concern that you no longer want anything more to do with her other than as a student. As that is clearly not the case, I suggest you speak to her at once and resolve this misunderstanding." She remembered the lateness of the hour. "Tomorrow should suffice."

He nodded solemnly. "I have treated her badly."

"Yes, you have."

His visible eyebrow lifted in surprise at her quick agreement.

"You are both much too passionate in nature, as I've said before, feeling emotions to a dangerous extreme where there is often no restraint – and that can be both a blessing and a curse. It is also to your misfortune that you are both far too sensitive and stubborn to surmount the obstacles of distance and silence without interference from an intermediary." And she was the appointed one, God help her. She had taken them both in as children, and at times they still behaved in that manner.

She understood the reason for their ignorance of protocol with regard to being involved in a close relationship; it was logical given their history. But sometimes she feared that they would _both_ end up driving her to insanity, an early retirement, or both. Erik was a genius in the arts, but he was like a newborn when it came to social decorum and expressing his hidden feelings to the woman he loved above all else. Christine was newborn in her role as a young woman, but still ordered her steps expressly by her emotions, never choosing the rational method of safety but always the one driven by her heart.

If ever were two people more opposite in demonstration! If ever were two people more similar in character. Now if they could just learn the fine art of communication when the need arose to speak of things other than the arts, she could be left in peace to deal with details for the new production.

"Go to her. She should hear these words from you, including an explanation for your most recent boorish behavior." She smiled in encouragement, taking the sting out of her words. "And on that parting advice, I will leave you to your work, of which I heartily approve, however much I wish you would come above and live in the world of a healthy sun and fresh air. Bon Nuit, Erik."

She moved to the wall by the boat and picked up the pole, preparing to leave.

"Why did you scream?"

His soft words froze her in her tracks – the question, so quiet and despondent, as if coming from the boy he'd once been, pounded into her, slicing through her soul and nailing her to the stones. Her heart pounded just as heavily as if it might shatter in her chest.

In ten years not once had they spoken of that night.

"Tell me," he continued in that quiet, hopeless voice. "I want to know. I would hear you say it."

After his return from Persia, he never brought up the night of his disappearance and she felt too uneasy with the altered version of Erik to try. She had never forgotten, only ignored the fateful hour that stood between them as an invisible wall of guilt. She wondered what specter of his past haunted that he would bring it up now, after all this time.

She took in a shuddering breath for fortitude, and turned to face him again, resolving to say what she had run down five cellars to say that night, only to find his lair empty, as it would remain for three years.

"I didn't expect to see you there, in my room. Meg had been crying all night, and I had experienced such terrifying dreams. Dreams of her death. A woman I knew, her child died in the night with no warning, and I woke to see you standing over her cot …" His eyes narrowed and she sought for the right words, not wishing to fail at her first and last chance to correct a grievous wrong. "I – I didn't know it was you when I screamed for you to get out. It was too dark to see. I didn't mean to injure your feelings, Erik. I understood later that you were only curious to see her, since I often spoke of her. And when I worried because she was so sick, you offered to sing a lullaby to her – I remembered that afterward –"

"That is not what I meant."

No, she knew that was not what he meant. She didn't want to think of what he meant and swallowed hard at his still words. Even after ten years, they were full of pain, of one betrayed. Tears misted her eyes as she struggled with what finally must be said. "When I calmed and realized it was you, I asked one of the ballet rats to sit with Meg and followed you. I never meant to invade your privacy. I only wished to explain. I – I had no idea you would be removing your mask. You turned from the mirror when you heard me in the boat …"

The harsh memory came to her in vivid detail, even after so much time. In the gypsy tent, the lighting had been dim, the jeering crowd dizzying, her tears heavy at his plight. All of it marring a clear view of his face. That night strong candlelight had vividly cast his tortured skin in clear view, blood oozing from torn skin on his twisted cheek and his brow and she had been horrified to see the extent of the damage. She had almost fallen from the boat. The warbled sound that came from her throat had been as much a cry of sympathy as …

"You screamed in horror," he finished for her, his manner nonchalant to those who didn't know him well, but concealing a barely leashed threat to those who'd been in his company enough to understand his devious mind. To understand as well as one could … even if his irrational behavior often lacked reason.

"I did not expect it to be so awful …"

His expression hardened to stone and a harsh glint flashed in his eyes. He turned his back to her now as he had then. "Get out."

This time his words came quiet. The first time he had yelled them in his youthful rage, knocking over candlesticks, and any items that his flailing hands could make contact with, howling like a trapped and wounded animal in his pain and anger.

This time she refused to go. Although she knew the sinister and calm man she again approached was more deadly than the young boy who had flown into a hurt rage.

"Your face was a bloody mess," she continued what should have been said that night, addressing his stiffened back. "I was horrified to see what had happened to you and didn't understand the reason for it. I couldn't think of what to say and only reacted. I was weary from too many sleepless nights. I wasn't thinking straight. I was foolish not to stay, to wait, to explain …"

He did not turn, did not respond.

She sighed. "I won't lie to you, Erik. Your affliction is very bad, but I never once feared your appearance. I felt sorry for you when I saw you in that gypsy tent and appalled at how that beast treated you, and I wanted to help you however I could. _I did_ help you all I could. If anything frightened me, it was your volatile anger. You would fly into such tantrums. You still do. THAT is why I left this lair that night, not because of any presumed horror over your deformity … After Claude's untimely death I was forced to grow up, to become stronger. And it is partly due to becoming a widow and raising a child alone that I can withstand your rages now where I never could before."

She continued staring at the back of his head. "_That night_ I realized you must not have taken care of your face, that somehow you had injured it and it had become raw, perhaps septic. _I felt_ _horrified with myself_ that I had never seen to all your needs. Having spent my life learning the artifices of theatrical cosmetics I should have known what constantly wearing a mask could do, with the manner in which you had begun to experiment in applying it, if that is indeed how such wounds occurred – and I returned to apologize for my foolish behavior. But also I intended to hold you down and tie you up if I had to, so I could clean and bandage your wounds."

"Hold me down? Tie me up? _You?_"

Heartened by the faint amusement in his low words, she continued, "You were still wiry then and my muscles were strong from the ballet. But yes, if I had to, I would have done so. Y-you were like a young brother to me," she stumbled over the words she had never admitted, "and I have never forgiven myself for my thoughtlessness that night you ran away. It is partly why I became and remained your assistant upon your return, asking for no recompense, though I have often strongly disagreed with your methods. I felt I owed that much to you."

"Partly?"

She sighed. Trust his quick mind to pick up on that. But she had flayed her pride enough for one night, and she would not implore his unyielding back to somehow return to the ease of the amity they once shared.

"Partly."

She waited. When he didn't respond, she took it as a sign to leave and retraced her steps to the boat. Even if he could never forgive her, she felt relieved that she had been given another chance to speak the words that had festered inside her heart for an entire decade, shut away but not forgotten.

She poled her way to the portcullis, her disciplined mind going to the myriad details needing addressed before rehearsals began tomorrow for the new production. There were the costumes to approve – the seamstresses did not lack for material goods and she must stress yet again that they understood the difference between a burlesque and an opera. New dance numbers must be choreographed, but first and foremost, she must assure a disgruntled Christine that all would indeed work out and hope that her misery did not carry through to her voice before Erik had a chance to speak with her. The new managers would not be happy with a despondent songbird. Allowing her personal feelings to color her song was a flaw that Christine must learn to suppress …

"Goodnight, Antoinette. I am grateful for your help."

His deep voice carried over the still water and for the second time in so few minutes she felt turned to stone, like the great twin statues of Atlas ahead carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Only for her, an old burden had rolled away. By the time she regained enough presence of mind to look behind her he had gone.

_Antoinette._

He had not called her by name since the night before he left the opera house ten years ago.

Tears again wet her eyes.

Perhaps, as she had encouraged Christine, there was hope after all.

**xXx**

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**A/N: Looks like all is at last well, huh? :)**

**(*smiles sweetly)**


	21. This Waking Nightmare

**A/N: Thank you for the great reviews! I savor them like dark chocolates. :) This one is especially for the angst lovers … Ever hear of that old adage - One step forward, two steps back …?**

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**This Waking Nightmare**

**Chapter XXI**

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He should have known such good fortune was not meant to last.

The Phantom entered the theater by way of the secret entrance near Box Five. He had every intention of visiting Christine before her rehearsal started, to sort out the grave misunderstanding – how could she think he wouldn't want her any longer? He grimaced at the opposing knowledge that he'd given her little reason to think otherwise – but first he must ensure his opera was going as planned, a requirement long overdue when dealing with the bungling fools who operated this theater.

With the despicable sickness, he'd lost three days. Before that, he concentrated all effort on the forthcoming plans and on Christine who was at the center of those plans, as well as looking into the disturbing new mystery involving the uncouth degenerate Buquet and his slimy friend.

Once more he had seen them meet. Once more he had followed, his mood foul – this time along the well-lit streets of Paris. He rarely went out in daylight, detested the harsh light which would bring unwanted attention to his face, even though he used the wide brim of his fedora to help cover the mask … To the untrained eye, everything appeared no different, but Erik had spent his lifetime in shadows and had learned to observe. He noticed the furtive and telling looks that, at first glance, what seemed veritable strangers would give his quarry from a distance. Terse nods were exchanged between strangers in passing. And he sensed unrest bubbling below the quiet surface, the city like an unwatched pot ready to boil over. Something was brewing, something he did not believe to be confined to the opera house, and in recalling the snippets of conversation he'd overheard he sensed the theater was to play a significant part in what was planned.

Normally he did not concern himself with the trials and quandaries of the city, of late besieged by war with Prussia. He read all accounts in the newspapers Madame brought, but such news was similar to reading books of faraway lands. There was the bliss of ignorance to be found five levels beneath the earth, where such unrest could not touch the tomb-like stillness of one already dead. The opera house had never been involved in the nation's politics, such troubles failed to concern him. The theater provided a place for entertainment, not a podium to condemn or affirm change. Yet now that Christine had resurrected his dormant feelings, he experienced sober unease, hoping his developing assumptions were incorrect, at the same time fearing they were not. There was little he could do, though there were tricks he could attempt should the need arise … Time, as always, would prove the harbinger of what was to come.

But for now, and for this theater, time had run its course, soon to prove if Erik was a composer that people would laud or mock. Because of the distractions he'd given no time personally to ensure that preparations were well in order before rehearsals for the new production started this afternoon ...

The gravest of all his mistakes. Perhaps his worst one yet.

In horrified disbelief, he took his place concealed within the shadows cast by the alcove's curtain and stared at the blood-red and coal-black lengths of drapery that were a backdrop for the wood cutouts of flames ringing the dual set of stairs. One on each side, they circled up to the edges of a nine-foot, narrow bridge with a fire pit beneath – the set of his new opera.

His opera of death.

All the promises he made Christine faded into oblivion as thoughts of retribution waged heavily inside his mind. If two stagehands had not at that moment swaggered into view, sharing a bottle between them, he would have swung down from a rope and made good on the destruction that pounded out a death knell inside his chaotic thoughts. One flame would send the whole damnable erection of dry wood up into a pile of ashes, as it should have remained. As it should never have been created. But like some damnable phoenix bent on his mortal destruction, the accursed opera had risen up out of its own ashes.

_HOW…?_ _**WHY…? **_

_WHO in blazes was responsible for this horror?_

His eyes narrowed with a memory and he sucked in a harsh breath.

With a quiet curse, he whipped around, his cloak fanning in dark, menacing waves behind him as he silently stormed through shadowed corridors, not stopping until he threw open the door at the end of the last one. This early, he knew his prey would be alone.

Madame Giry jumped in her chair, an uncertain look on her face. "M-maestro? This is unexpected."

"Damn you." His words were as soft and lethal as the precise whoosh of a punjab finding its target. Swift and silent, he closed the door without turning and approached her desk, towering over her. "You _blithering_ _idiot!_ You gave them the wrong opera! Your clumsiness has cost me everything. _Everything_! Do you hear?"

His vivid dream of a life with Christine, at last so close, once more faded into the darkest pit of emptiness, where his mind threatened quickly to follow. His fingers itched for his lasso, to wrap around this fool woman's throat in vengeance, though never once in all the years of their association had he approached her in true threat with the intent to carry out his vile warnings. With Antoinette Giry, due to a trace of something akin to familial loyalty, he had acted solely on intimidation.

But today …

She recoiled slightly, seeing the murder burn wild in his eyes. "I-I don't understand, monsieur."

He barely refrained from following through with his course of action, the flicker of humanity that Christine had resurrected fighting to ignite inside his dark soul. His eyes fell shut, the image of her face haunting him. Pleading. Trusting. A light to him, always a damned pleading, trusting light. He struggled for breath, to control his rage, and yielded to the gentle vision that stole away what remained of his madness. His later plunge into the other side of sanity had destroyed the future without mercy. He could not allow it to gain hold and destroy this present existence.

The opera would do that.

At the ugly truth, an ember of his anger stirred and burst into flame.

"You took not only the opera I ordered you to take, but the one I cast aside." His words came quieter. His eyes narrowed when she continued to stare, her expression a blank. "The table you backed into, the papers you gathered from the ground …"

Awareness dawned, her eyes going solemn, nervous.

"Ah, yes," he bit out. "You remember."

"And – this is a problem?"

He almost laughed at the inadequacy of such a word. Bracing his gloved fists on the desk, he leaned in close and growled, "_**This,**_ Madame, is a catastrophe!"

"I – I didn't know. There were two in the folder –"

"Precisely. So why in the _**hell**_ didn't you bother to ask me which one to present?"

"You had other concerns at the time. The masquerade, your torment over Christine. I … I did what I thought was right." Her chin lifted as she floundered for purchase of her confidence. "I took the opera with the notes scribbled on it. I thought the notes were for the managers, since there was instruction for building the set. The other opera was devoid of notes. I thought it wasn't yet ready for production …"

He almost laughed at this fatal irony and gripped the edge of the desk hard to prevent his hands from grabbing her shoulders and shaking her until her teeth rattled. He always made more than one copy of each composition. The one she took of Don Juan Triumphant was his original cluttered with notes to himself. The clean copy of Clowns in Arabesque was what he had wished to present for the new production to the managers. Damn her ignorance! Damn her for not checking with him first. And damn his alleged genius ten times over for not looking into this sooner!

"You must speak to the managers at once! Tell them it was a mistake."

"I can't do that!"

"**NO?**"

Enraged, he swung his arm out and knocked over the standing lamp at the end of her desk. The discordant tinkle of crystals smashing against the wood panels before hitting the floor hardly helped to stem his rage. The room swirled in bizarre patterns of light and shadow as the flames danced off the prisms' descent before snuffing out, the only light now coming from the wall sconce above her head.

"Perhaps you misunderstood," he snarled. "That was not a request. _This production will not go on!_"

"It is you who have misunderstood, Maestro. To deliver such a message would cost you all that you have worked so hard to gain!"

"Not to deliver it would be to the detriment of all involved."

"Have you given no thought to Christine? This is her operatic debut as the lead, all that you have dreamed for her for the stage. That both of you have dreamed for. To withdraw your opera now would cost her any future as a singer here."

"_Give them the other damn opera!_" He leaned in on the desk again. "It is that opera she has practiced for, it is that opera she knows." He had never told Madame about the future shadows or anything of his encounter that night, and he wasn't about to bloody well do it now.

"The sets have been built, the costumes made. What reason shall I give for your insistence to change productions at this late date? The managers will see it as nothing more than the fit of a temperamental artist. Unless you can give me a good reason to approach them with such an outlandish demand, that is all I see as well!"

Something in his eyes must have warned her she had gone too far, for suddenly she drew back in her chair, her expression uneasy.

"Monsieur, I beg you to reconsider. If you do demand this from them and they give in, what guarantee do you have that they will keep Christine as the lead? They only agreed to the role because of the pact you made. If you withdraw, they will consider it a breach of contract and likely will again sign La Carlotta to the lead of whatever rehash of an opera they choose to present in its place. They would dare not take a gamble on a little-known singer and will settle for a well-known diva who has proven to fill seats in the house. They will already have lost what revenue it cost them to prepare for this production. Christine will have lost her chance at stardom, because they will no longer trust you and you are her teacher."

"CONFOUND IT, WOMAN!" He slammed his fist on the desk. "YOU have destroyed everything. If Christine loses her rightful place, it is _your _fault!"

"There is nothing wrong with that opera," she lowered her tone, her manner going quiet, as if to encourage. "It is bizarre in nature, but I believe it would appeal to the populace at this time. The citizens of Paris are restless, looking for something different. _Faust, Il Muto, Robert le Diable_ – at one time in history they all would have been considered bizarre. Perhaps your opera will be a revolutionary idea to inspire other operas of its kind …"

Her placating words faded away like an annoying buzz, his anxious gaze having dropped to the paper on which his gloved knuckles rested. He stood frozen, as every focused thought seemed to merge and settle on that one piece of paper, a piece of torn parceling that rendered him suddenly numb.

She followed his rapt attention. "It belongs to you, Maestro. I was planning to give it to you when next I saw you. The seamstress gave it to me days ago. With all that has happened, I had forgotten…"

Her words rippled around him, intangible, to make sense of them like trying to hold onto water. He could only focus on the childish scrawl of letters and the hand-drawn picture below:

_My Angel_

And below that a smiling man in cloak and mask, with wings drawn at the back.

"Her daughter drew the picture to give to you," Madame continued very softly. "The child you helped. I gave the mother the franc notes for the child – Tina – to see a qualified physician, without telling her it was by your order, as you asked of me. Her mother was very grateful – though I do not understand why you wish to remain anonymous. Such a generous deed should not go unrewarded and would surely gain you public favor. It could help boost interest in this Don Juan opera, if failure of its positive reception is what has you so concerned …"

Past, present, and future collided in a macabre swirl, the events of all shadows reflecting like chaotic lights of prisms in this bizarre parody of the moment now lived. If the timing of events did not crush his soul, he might have fallen under the weight of crazed laughter. Providence indeed did have a wicked sense of humor.

"Say nothing." His voice came out a low rumble, barely recognizable. "But speak to the managers at once."

With that he turned and swept out of her office before he did something he would truly later come to regret.

**xXx**

"Only one more day of this," Christine muttered to herself, wondering why she had ever wanted to become part of the chorus.

Later in the afternoon they would begin rehearsals for the new opera, and continue through the week, but during the nights they would perform this final week of Il Muto. Officially, her last day to dance should have been yesterday, Erik wanting her to get as much rest as possible for her upcoming debut. But Bridgett was sick and Christine agreed to Madame's request to fill in her spot for tonight's performance. Unfortunately, that put her in position next to Chantel who had sneered at her throughout practice and snorted when Christine fouled up in her steps. Twice Christine barely prevented herself from slapping the superior smile off the hussy's painted face. One minute more, and she would have followed through with the overpowering urge. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed when Madame called a temporary end to practice and ordered everyone to take a break.

With her head down, Christine retied the slipping ribbon that did a poor attempt of holding back her unruly hair and didn't pay close attention to where she was going. She almost walked into someone, a pair of strong hands grabbing her arms before she could step on any toes.

"Oh – pardon." She looked up in apology, her manner cooling when she stared into the constant blue eyes of Raoul. Their color, she noticed, was a match to his stable somewhat predictable personality.

She barely withheld a groan. Not this. She didn't need _this_ right now.

"Christine, are you alright?"

At the genuine worry in his tone, she felt bad for her unkind thought and managed to smile. "It was only a difficult practice. I'm fine."

He nodded, his expression solemn. "I would like to speak with you, if I may?"

"Now is not a good time. I'm sorry." She moved around him, hoping he wouldn't follow. The last thing she needed was for Erik to see them together. Madame had told her that he would be visiting with her early today, to discuss matters, and Christine had many questions. After the horrible misunderstanding on the rooftop, she didn't want him to misconstrue her speaking alone with her old friend. Things were already bad enough between them for whatever reason Erik chose to foster; she didn't need them to get worse.

"Please, Christine, it's important." She felt Raoul grab her arm above the elbow to stop her and she looked at him in surprise, relieved that no one was in the vicinity to notice.

"Can it not wait?"

"Why are you avoiding me?"

"I'm not." She fidgeted a little at the lie. "What is it you wish to say?"

"It's about your teacher. What do you know about him?"

His questions surprised her. "Why do you ask?"

"I understand no one has seen him, save for you."

"Are you doubting his existence, believing I only made him up in my mind?" She laughed in soft incredulity. "Madame Giry _knows_ him. And Meg has met him. And you must have seen him with me at the ball."

He waved that aside. "I mean no one has seen him on a routine basis. I understand he hides himself from all others and has developed a rather nasty reputation at the opera house."

"He's a private person. There's nothing wrong with that. And really, Raoul, I don't wish to stand in the corridor and defend Erik to you."

"Perhaps we should talk elsewhere."

"Perhaps you should just go."

To her chagrin, Monsieur Firmin chose that moment to walk into view. "What's this?" He sent a warning look to Christine and smiled with effusive geniality at Raoul. "Vicomte, it is indeed a pleasure to have you with us again. Take no mind of the girl. She's a bit flighty as these dancers often are. Have you come to watch the rehearsals for the new production?"

"Yes, but first I was hoping to speak privately with Miss Daae."

"Ah, of course," her manager said in his smarmy tone reserved for the Vicomte, "I'm sure that can easily be arranged and Miss Daae will be happy to oblige you in whatever way you wish."

Her face flushed warm in her irritation as the matter was adroitly snatched from her hands and given an embarrassing spin she didn't like one bit.

"Miss Daae," Firmin turned to look at her, his tone soft but carrying a hint of steel, "why don't you take the Vicomte to your dressing room where you can discuss matters in private?"

"Oh, but I –"

"Yes?" he snapped the word out like a command not to be crossed, his dark brows lifting and black eyes glittering a warning that she should not defy him.

"Dance rehearsal will resume soon," she explained, trying her best to keep her tone level.

"I'm sure they can do well without you for one practice. Besides, you won't be dancing long and will soon be entertaining us with that lovely voice of yours. Run along. I'll make certain that you're not disturbed," he said in an aside to Raoul.

Livid with fury, Christine stiffly walked a few steps ahead of Raoul, sorely tempted to slam the door in his face once she reached the dressing room. But that decision was also wrested from her as he hurried the few steps ahead to open the door, letting her precede him into the room. She walked to the dressing table and snatched her wrapper from the chair, shrugging into it and tying it around her waist with a few quick snaps.

The moment the door closed, Christine whirled to face him. "If your intention in coming here is to further criticize Erik, please don't bother. I love him and nothing you can say will change that."

He sighed and approached her but kept his distance. "I am merely concerned, Lotte. When I hear of an elusive masked villain that has been haunting the opera as a ghost for years, and I learn that my childhood sweetheart has fallen under his spell, thinking herself in love with such a beast –"

"I _am_ in love with him! And _never_ call him by that name! Don't speak evil of him, Raoul. Ever. I thought you were better than that. He can't help it if he has to wear a mask."

"Has to?"

She wished to bite her tongue in half for its disloyal slip. Raoul's eyes narrowed, his interest suddenly sharpened.

"Why should he _have to_ wear a mask, Christine?"

"I'm not answering any more of your prying questions about Erik. I have known him nine years and he is none of the horrid things people say he is. He is wonderful and kind and generous. And very talented. It is HIS opera that I will be performing – did your allegedly informative contacts tell you that? If you can't trust my judgment then you don't know me at all, and that is your problem alone. Now, please go. I would like to lie down and rest before practice resumes."

"Christine …" he sounded weary. "What happened? I thought at the Bal Masque we parted as friends? Why do you now treat me as your enemy? Have I offended you in some manner? Only tell me, so that I may offer my apology and right whatever wrong I've committed."

His eyes implored her for an answer, the gentle blue eyes of the boy who had come to her rescue once for her scarf and many times in their pretenses, giving her companionship when she was so lonely, and suddenly she felt like a shrew for her icy behavior toward him. He couldn't know that he had been the root of the problem between her and Erik and that it was because of her time with Raoul on the rooftop that she had almost lost Erik forever. Nor could Raoul know that he and she were the victims of vicious theater gossip. He didn't live there, he only visited on occasion, and no one would risk letting him hear their scandalous rumors for fear of being discharged or offending their sole patron.

She feared _anyone_ seeing her with Raoul and getting the wrong impression, but mostly Erik. She never again wanted to live through another harrowing week like the one she'd spent without him, though his curt distance of late gave her new cause for bitter angst. But Raoul didn't deserve her callous disregard either. He had done nothing wrong, and if his line of questioning was arrogant and not favorable to Erik, she knew he only spoke because he _did_ care about her welfare and had never met her Angel.

"I'm sorry, Raoul. I haven't been very kind." She smiled and shrugged lightly, too embarrassed to tell him what people were saying and not wishing to bring up Erik again. "I suppose I'm nervous about the opening. A lot of people are expecting much from me, and I don't wish to disappoint."

A smile broke over his face like the sun's rays as he moved forward and took her hands in his, gently squeezing them. "Dear Lotte, you have nothing to fear. You could charm the birds off the trees with your angel's voice."

She smiled at the irony of his remark. "You are kind to me, more than I deserve."

"You deserve more than most men can give."

"Raoul."

At her abrupt warning tone, he grinned and backed away, letting go of her hands. "I only speak the truth. Is there a crime in that? If friends are anything, they should be honest with one another. No, don't look at me like that. I assure you there aren't any hidden motives. I know when I'm beaten. Only …" He hesitated then reached up with one curled finger to briefly stroke her skin at the corner of her mouth. "Be careful, Christine. I don't want to see you unhappy and I have rarely seen you smile since the day I arrived at the theater."

"Thank you for your concern," she said quietly, leery of saying too much. "You have often been to me the brother I never had."

His eyes flinched at her deliberate message before he nodded in understanding and again smiled. "Then I shall treat you as the little sister I always wanted. Beware, Lotte, as an older brother I can be very protective. I'm still not pleased with your choice of a reclusive troublemaker for a beau. What do you know about him, really? Where does he come from? When will I meet him – ?"

"Raoul …"

He sighed and lifted his hands in surrender. "Alright – for the present. But don't think I won't investigate into the matter. I _will be_ assured that he is worthy of you, my dear. Have you had luncheon?"

"No, I'm not hungry, and I don't have time for a meal even if I was."

"Very well. Perhaps later we may talk in a more comfortable environment – only to talk," he assured with a chuckle at her raised brow. "In some place not so private. For now I shall leave you to your rest and bid you adieu." In a thoroughly noble gesture, he gave a little rolling wave of his hand from his chest as he smiled and said the last word, then left and closed the door behind him.

She had no time to hurry and lock it before the mirror door crashed open. She whirled around, surprised that with the force of his entrance the glass did not shatter.

Her heart fell at the dark scowl that covered her reclusive beau's face. With his white half mask and cold expression, his cloak swirling around his towering form as he stepped into the room – he looked every inch the Phantom of the Opera.

xXx

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**A/N: Oops.**

***smiles**

**Please review … and have a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday! :)**


	22. Let Your Darker Side Give In

**A/N: Hope everyone had a great holiday! The forecast for this chapter- M rated with hot steam ahead - proceed with caution. ;-) **

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**Let your Darker Side Give In  
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**Chapter XXII**

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The dark figure that loomed at the mirror door glared at Christine.

"_What the hell did that boy want?"_

She swallowed hard at the brusque greeting. But as quickly as dread filled her at her Phantom's dramatic entrance, it evaporated, and her own waning anger honed to a sharpened edge. He had treated her with barely held contempt for the past three days at practice, giving her _no reason_ for his changed behavior, barely spoken to her, at times ignored her, and later pushed her away – and now he _dared_ to treat her as if _she_ had done something wrong?

"Monsieur, how kind of you to visit." Her chin sailed at a lofty angle. "To whom do you refer? The Vicomte, I presume?"

He swiftly covered the distance between them. "Don't play coy with me, Christine. Of course I mean _that insolent boy!_"

"He was actually very courteous. He asked to take me to luncheon."

"You refused, of course?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Do you see me with him?"

His eyes glowed storm green as he took in a lengthy breath through his nostrils and expelled it harshly through his teeth. "I thought he was out of your life for good. Was that kiss the two of you shared not the farewell you claimed?"

She flinched at his quiet attack. "It's a bit difficult to avoid him considering he is our only patron at present."

"And why should that make a difference?"

"With the managers making demands of me at every turn?" She blinked when she realized what she had blurted in her lingering ire with Firmin.

"What demands?"

"I … nothing." She felt the blood drain from her face. "I didn't mean anything – "

"_WHAT demands!"_

She turned and walked a short distance, frustrated with herself and her foolish pride for starting this latest quarrel. The last thing she wanted was another argument with Erik and she certainly didn't want to say anything to upset the truce he'd made with the managers.

"Perhaps I misunderstood. Perhaps they didn't mean anything by it."

"Christine, I _will know_ what they said, and I will know _now_."

At his unwavering tone cloaked with that dark hint of reckless danger, she gave in. "They want me to spend time in Raoul's company and ensure that he's kept happy." She turned then, her eyes beseeching him to understand. "That's the only reason I went with him to the roof on the night of the Bal Masque. It really meant nothing more."

His eyes burned into hers. "The managers asked you to entertain the Vicomte? _When?"_

"The day after you agreed to teach me again," she admitted, looking away.

"_Idiots!"_ His condemnation came out in a burst of air, though still barely audible. His eyes narrowed as he searched her face. "What _exactly_ did they ask of you, Christine?"

Sensing his rising fury, she hesitated in speaking. "It wasn't what they said, so much as what they implied. But I could have been mistak –"

"Tell me." His words came deathly silent.

She knew it would be of no use to refuse. Eventually he would learn the truth somehow, and she would rather him know all of it than continue to think ill of her for what he had just walked in on. "They suggested I … give a private audience to the Vicomte," she blushed, "that it would be mutually beneficial, a boon to my career."

He whirled away and swore just above his breath in a furious string of curses that made her wince. His eyes again sharpened on her. "_And why did you not tell me this before?_"

"I did not wish to stir up more trouble. I knew you would not be pleased, and I did not want the Opera Ghost to make a return and cause havoc. Tell me you won't, Erik. Not when our dreams are so close."

"I will not stand idly by and let that pompous buffoon maul you!"

"I don't believe he would stoop to such lewd behavior as the managers. He seems to be a gentleman and has offered his friendship, even brotherly concern."

"Friendship!" he spit out. "_Brotherly? _Tell me you are not so gullible as to believe tha…" He broke off as his eyes suddenly widened and grew intent again. "Wait! You said …" His eyes blazed hotter, the part of his nose she could see going white at the nostril as he bared his teeth in a grimace. "**_Have the managers tried anything with you _****_–_**"

"No," she said quickly, not mentioning their lustful, roving gazes, since they did that to all the dancers as well. "No, Mon Ange. They only asked me to entertain Raoul, but you have no need for concern. I told him how I feel about you and he assured me that he has no hidden motives."

"With the family he comes from, I highly doubt that he bears no hidden motives!"

She pulled her brows together in curious shock. "You know of the de Chagnys?"

"Who does not?" He whirled away and stalked to the mirror.

"Erik – wait! Where are you going?"

She blinked as she watched him disappear into the corridor, his cloak fluttering behind him the only farewell she received.

She ran to the mirror. "Erik!" she called after him. "You can't just leave like this! There's still so much I want to know … ERIK!" She stamped her foot in frustration.

"Go back to practice, Christine," he answered without turning around or slowing his steps. "We will talk later."

Gaping at his retreating form, she glared at the back of his skull then stepped into her dressing room, just preventing herself from slamming the mirror door shut in the same manner he had opened it. With the way fortune had frowned on her this day, the glass would no doubt break into a thousand shards.

Not feeling the least bit rested, she marched out the door to rejoin the others for practice. If Chantel said one contrary word, Christine would throttle her.

**.**

**xXx**

**.**

The Phantom kicked in the door, sending it crashing into the wall.

"_What the hell__…?_" Andre spluttered.

"I thought you locked it!" screeched a buxom dancer with bushy red hair as she frantically scrambled off his lap and fell on her rear. At the formidable sight of the masked and cloaked madman now towering in the room, she gasped and clutched her gaping bodice over her bosom. Her eyes widened in stunned alarm.

"Leave," Erik growled the word low, not moving a muscle.

With another little yelp the ballet rat jumped off the carpet, pulling the sleeve of her bodice over her shoulder as she skirted around him and sped out the door. Andre furiously worked to adjust his trousers.

"What is the meaning of this?" His indignation faded into terror and his face paled once the Phantom swept closer and he caught the murderous look in his eyes. "Wh-wh-why are you here?"

"_You_," Erik snarled, "will never attempt to prostitute my fiancé again!" To hell with keeping it a secret. "Do I make myself clear?"

Andre's eyes bugged. "Wh-wh-what – who? I don't know –"

"Do NOT …" Erik moved with the swiftness of a panther around the desk and grabbed the blubbering idiot by the lapels of his waistcoat, pulling him up and bringing his face close to his with teeth bared. "… **_ever _**take me for a fool, monsieur. It is a mistake that you _may_ live to regret. IF I let you live …"

"I-I-I- I don't know wh-what you're talking about."

The Phantom sensed Firmin's entrance into the room and released Andre with a push. He fell back into his chair. The Phantom swung around just as Firmin tried to duck out of the office.

"Get back in here." He wasted no time in sardonic pleasantries. "We have business to discuss."

Firmin hesitated then retreated the step into the room and closed the door. He turned, slowly smoothing his cravat into his waistcoat with slight nervous gestures. His manner one of trying to portray self-assurance, though he opened and closed his mouth as he stared back and forth from Erik to Andre in nervous confusion.

"Business?" Firmin found his voice.

"First, you will desist in ordering Miss Daae to entertain the Vicomte. I never again want to hear that you have pushed her into such a foul arrangement. With _anyone_."

"Now see here," Firmin nervously began, "you can't tell us what to – "

"I _can. _And _I will_." Erik glared at him. "You will NEVER treat her as anything less than the lady she is. Miss Daae is my betrothed, and I do not take kindly to anyone mistreating my intended bride." At this Firmin blanched. "Secondly, if ever I hear her name linked to gossip unflattering for a woman of her standing, if ever I even hear you mention _her name_ in a derogatory manner, the Opera Ghost will make a comeback, and you, Gentlemen, will be the first of his victims. In the literal sense."

Andre made a choking sound behind him. "W-w-w-we never said she _had_ to entertain him –"

Firmin sent his partner a quelling look. "I think you must have misunderstood – "

"Pre-precisely," Andre finished. "Sh-she doesn't have to spend time with him if she doesn't care to –"

"And we certainly haven't been spreading gossip –"

"We made the suggestion only if she cared to follow through – "

"Andre, enough! We really have no control over what others say. People _will_ talk – "

"And we never forced her to do more than talk with him!"

"_Andre!_"

The entire time they blubbered their pathetic excuses, the Phantom listened with his head lowered, his body motionless. He took three slow steps away and surreptitiously fingered a long, thin dagger that sat at the edge of the desk.

"A-and I never – that is, w-we never –"

"ENOUGH!" he bellowed as he spun around, throwing the blade with deadly precision. It whizzed a fraction past Andre's ear and found its mark in the wall only inches behind him. A trick of coercion he had learned in Persia. A threat that never failed in its intent. Noting the spreading stain over Andre's trousers and the beads of moisture popping out over his chalk white face, he felt at last the stuttering imbecile had received the gist of his message.

Erik glanced at Firmin who gaped at him, his eyes just as round, his face just as pasty white, then looked back at Andre.

"Gentlemen." He gave a curt nod in farewell. "Consider that your first and final warning. I never miss."

His message thus delivered and duly received, he grabbed the edges of his cloak near his hips and swept out of their office.

**x**

Still enraged with the managers' gall, with Giry's blind ignorance, and with that damned boy's maddening persistence, and at the core of it all – shaken by one sickly child's deficient drawing of his warped character, the Phantom silently swept into the room through the mirror door and closed it behind him.

_Angel?_

Why would she draw him as such a creature? She could not know that he had helped her. Regardless, he was _no_ _angel_ … and at this moment he felt far removed from any such noble being.

In the process of removing her wrapper, Christine turned from the dressing table and saw him standing there. She jumped in shock, the wrapper sliding to her wrists then falling into a puddle of white satin on the carpet.

"Erik! I didn't hear you come in … are – are you alright?"

He didn't answer her nervous query. Upon seeing the poor excuse for an outfit she wore, his fragile containment on his rage shattered like glass.

"What _fool idiot_ put you in that monstrosity?"

Christine glanced down at the silk and gauze that barely covered her skin. "You don't like it?" Her voice sounded the slightest bit uncertain.

If she were in his bed, it would be perfect. He was not about to let his beautiful fiancée prance around the stage in next to nothing for all the men to gawk at. This costume was even worse than the skimpy harem outfit of Hannibal, and he had a sneaking suspicion the damned managers with their lewd attempts at the arts had everything to do with the choice.

He stared from the gold chains of tiny medallions that encircled her slim ankles and up her long legs, completely bare, his gaze traveling upward to the single piece of near transparent silk that clothed her nude body from hip to breast. Even the pale material closely resembled the color of her skin, save for the strips of rose gauze that hung from her waist to her knees and did a pathetic attempt to cover the sliver of cloth between her legs. Her breasts strained against the snug material, the clear jewels scattered across it doing a pitiable job of detracting attention from her rigid nipples.

"You are _not_ going out there dressed like that," he growled.

Christine frowned, still upset with him for his cold and distant retreat earlier, a match to his churlish behavior of the past three days. Yet she was weary of arguing with him and tried to modulate her voice into a composed reply. "Don't be unreasonable about this, Mon Ange. I've been out there twice already."

"Put something else on!"

She sighed. "What troubles you, so? I sense this is about more than the costume. You left here in such a hurry. Did you speak to the managers? Was it something they said?"

He waved aside her calm words with a broad sweep of his hand, ignoring her weak attempt at deflection. "What brought about the need for a costume change during the final run of an opera? What was wrong with the costumes used before this?"

"I heard someone mention a small fire in the costume area, quickly contained, but it did do some damage. I believe these replacements are from a former opera, though they're not familiar to me."

No, they wouldn't be. He would wager they were filched from a shah's harem, a stripper's burlesque, or any local house of ill repute.

"Incompetent _fools! The lot of them!_" He paced the width of the room from wall to wall, his outrage a living thing that drove his energy. "The fire no doubt caused by one of those useless idiot stagehands off smoking and drinking when he should have been at his post. This is an _opera_, for God's sake! Not a sideshow!"

"It's not so bad." Her voice came doubtful, as if she tried to persuade herself. "A bit tight, perhaps, but these tiny jewels are pretty."

His mouth thinned as he returned his attention to Christine. "These tiny jewels" formed a twisting design that accentuated each graceful curve of her full bosom.

"I forbid it." He whisked another costume off the changing screen, one that he had seen her in before and proved more suitable. "Wear this instead."

She crossed her arms over her midsection, unconsciously making her breasts stand out more. "Don't be absurd, Erik. I can't dance a grand Jeté in that! The skirt isn't full enough. This is no different than any other costume I've worn. Well, not much. But I can't go out there in a costume different from the other dancers."

"**_I don't give a damn about the other dancers! _**The tottering tarts can leap about the stage topless for all I care. But YOU will not display yourself to the many leering eyes of those despicable vermin who call themselves stagehands."

"I don't know what you're so upset about. It's only a costume, for pity's sake!"

"It's a **_piteous scrap of cloth_** that you will not wear!"

Impatient with the whole situation, her anger returned tenfold and her eyes sparkled back in refusal. "You have **_never _**behaved this way before. Unless wardrobe changes what they issue us, I really don't see that I have a choice **_but_** to wear it."

"You are making a regular habit of defying me," he said dangerously, advancing toward her and throwing the costume he had selected in a sideways arc to the rug. "And I **_intensely_** dislike it."

She lifted her chin. "When you behave like _a __… a_ … _a_ **_beastly roaring lion_** – as you have every day this week – what do you expect!"

He narrowed his eyes at her furious response, coming within touching distance of her. "Change out of the costume, Christine." His words rippled seductive as dark velvet and very dangerous.

"No. There's nothing wrong with it."

"Isn't there?" He curled his lips in a derisive twist. "Well then, let's _see_ about that."

He reached for the flimsy strap looped around the back of her neck with both hands and with a fierce wrench ripped the seam in two. With no support to hold it up, the silk pooled down atop her breasts, as far as the stays of her costume would allow, revealing a generous portion of the upper swells of her pale globes.

"The material is obviously inferior," he rasped, the words coming as an afterthought, his voice now thick and hoarse.

Her mouth fell open in stunned shock, her arms limply dropping from tightly holding herself around the waist. His hands slid to rest against the tops of her shoulders, his thumbs spreading over her neck toward the pulse of her wildly beating throat, lightly stroking the hollow there. Breathing hard, they stared at one another.

"_Erik __…?_"

The husky whisper of his name hardly resembled a plea to stop. Nor did the soft glow of hunger that lit her eyes offer even mild rebuke …

What was left of any semblance of control completely snapped and the surge of a different fire roared within, a fire he could no longer contain.

His gloved hand engulfed the side of her breast while he brought his mouth down hard on hers and backed her up against the mirror door. Her shoulder blades hit the glass, and he felt her surprised hesitation. Marginally softening the kiss, he moved his tongue along the bottom of her lip. She groaned and opened up to him, her arms moving to encircle his neck and pull him closer.

Their kiss instantly heated, their tongues waging a lovers' battle with the mutual goal the reward of desperate satisfaction. His hand spanned her firm bottom, bringing her hard against his lower body. He heard her gasp when she felt the throbbing evidence of exactly what she did to him at every damn turn.

His mouth dropped to the side of her neck, scattering urgent kisses along her satin skin down to what the fallen material revealed of her snowy bosom – _God, was all of her skin so incredibly soft to rival the silk she wore?_ – His hand went to her hip, sliding down her thigh as his lips and tongue traced the tops of the perfectly rounded globes that heaved and constricted against their bindings with her every tremulous breath. The infuriating stays barred his further hungered invasion and he thought about ripping them away from her body too, but at the last instant stopped, still with enough presence of mind not to want the sharp ribs to dig into her flesh and hurt her. Impatiently he settled for peeling away what little of the silk he could and sliding his tongue down in wet caress to smother her bare nipple.

She let out a sharp cry as his hot tongue made contact with the rigid peak, her hands clutching the back of his head and holding him in place as he ran his tongue over her again and again. He felt her body begin to give way and pushed her fully against the mirror a second time, holding her there. Hungry to taste her, he moved his mouth down, bringing it over one breast and firmly suckled her through the silk.

Her trembling increased, the moisture from his mouth wetting the whisper-thin material, the barrier between his mouth and her skin barely noticeable but hardly tolerable. He wished to feel ALL of her sweet flesh inside his mouth without the damnable interference of material always in the way and strongly again considered ripping the whole damned thing off her body.

He was lost … lost in the surging black waters of his need for her and her need for him. He was fast drowning, pulling her down with him into an abyss of dark sensation. Pulling his Angel down into his darkness, where she obediently followed …

Christine barely held on to her dangerous Phantom, her knees badly trembling. The feel of his hot tongue at her bare peak had electrified her. His intense suckling at her breast now stunned her. The heat of his mouth surrounded her, the insistence of his teeth and tongue more strongly felt than in the chapel, the silk thinner than the linen bed gown she'd worn then. Certain she would faint when he lightly bit her nipple, tugging at it with his teeth, she slapped her palm to the mirror for balance, when suddenly his gloved hand cupped her between her legs.

Beyond all thought of reason, Erik stroked her through the silk, his mouth traveling upward, blazing a hot wet trail. He sucked in her tender flesh, biting the cord of her neck, and felt the pressure of her body strong against his hand as this time her legs did give way and she sagged against his glove. His arm wrapped about her waist, keeping her standing, and he pushed his body against hers to free his hands and snap off the blasted glove – _why the hell did he wear them anyway?_ – again bringing his hand between her slim thighs, growling to feel the material damp from her pleasure.

She groaned in need as the heat of his hand replaced the cool leather of his glove. He stroked her through the silk, the friction of pressure he created making her restless for more, until she felt she would melt from the flame. She was barely aware when his searching fingers tried to dig past the edge of silk that stretched tight across her leg until with a gasp she realized he had managed to push two fingertips beneath the constricted band, the feel of his skin at her curls dizzying. With a sharp tug, he tried to tear the material away from her but failed, and she almost gave a faint insane giggle to hear him growl, "infernal costume's too damn well made," –words contrary to the argument that initiated his passionate assault. All vague amusement disappeared when he again pressed his warm fingers against the silk and began to rub her firmly, in the most intimate of slow strokes. He captured her soft moans with his hard kiss, his tongue engaging in its own sweet invasion.

A knock rapped at the door, barely recognizable through her whirling senses. "Five minutes, Miss Daae," one of the stagehands called out.

Erik continued to kiss and stroke her, as if he didn't hear the call. Nor did Christine care to respond to the order. A wash of heat spiraled through her core, and she kept her arms tight around him, wishing to wrap her entire body around his but trembling so much she knew she would collapse if she tried.

His strokes came deeper, swifter, the steady pressure of his long fingers burrowing and rubbing her through the thin silk creating a dark pleasure beyond anything Christine ever imagined. She clung to him, aching for him, moving against him with a mewl of frustration against his mouth, wishing to get closer, reaching for something she couldn't define. Wishing he would also tear wide the long row of tiny buttons at the back of her ruined costume. Wishing that no more awful material blocked the way for either of them. When suddenly her entire body shook in a harsh spasm as though a wave crashed through her.

Erik slowed his stroking then stopped and pulled his mouth away from hers to stare at her face in question, noticing the change in her immediately. She still trembled but now relaxed against the mirror, her arms no longer constricting the sides of his neck but now draping against the tops of his shoulders. The silk beneath his fingers was wetter, the fragrance of her stronger. She opened dazed, unfocused, darkened eyes.

Their breathing rapid, they stared at one another with intense, awed awareness.

His body ached to know hers, begged for it, demanded it …

Take her.

But no, no, _no __– damn it!_ – no …. her reputation … her reputation. _Damn!_ Her reputation …

He could not sacrifice her innocence on the altar of his desire. She was all that was good, she was his soothing light, his angel of mercy, his glorious music …

And he was the devil that could destroy her.

He pulled his hand from her warmth, feeling her eyes question. But he could not look into their bottomless depths for fear he would see the reflection of his perfidy, or worse, the gentle trust that would condemn him for what he had become.

He was a lustful beast. She was right to call him beastly.

And she was the pure virgin he adored.

He told himself, yet again, he wanted the experience to be all that she desired, the candlelight, the romance, the music ... Not a stolen moment between rehearsals where he gave in to his animalistic urges to claim her soft, warm body against the cold, hard glass of a mirror door. After the trust she placed in him, the love she had shown him when he deserved neither, he would not take her the first time like a harem slave. She deserved no less than everything. Soon, very soon, that night would come, and then she would know all the many unspoken secrets he wished to share with her, as he took his time pleasuring her in each one …

And that meant, God help him, even if he must stay away from her until all was in place he would do so. As the days had progressed, his ability to resist her had completely diminished. Self-restraint had not been as difficult to practice with thick walls of solid stone between them for two years as it had been in this last month with her ever near to touch, to kiss, to hold ...

She moistened her lower lip pulling at it softly with her teeth in a strange mix of wanton uncertainty, and he groaned.

"_Erik __…?"_

To hell with foolish resolve.

He moved forward to slake his thirst and taste her lips again, to tear the buttons away from her back, when the door handle to the dressing room jiggled in demand. He froze, his hands barely grazing her shoulders, his mouth inches from her own.

"Christine?" Meg's voice came to them. "Why is the door locked?"

Christine gave no answer, only continued to stare up at him with those huge brown eyes, at the moment as dark and mysterious as a midnight sky.

Meg called out again. "Maman said you must come to practice right now or you will not dance tonight … Christine, are you in there?"

Taking in a deep breath to grab onto what fragments of control were left, Erik forced himself to move away – she was in the midst of rehearsals for pity's sake! – and moved to her dressing table, pulling her wrapper from the floor. Again moving toward her, he drew it gently around her body, drawing the material of the sleeves up over her arms, then pulled it closed, his moves sensuous and slow in tying it, not wanting to pull his hands away from her until he must. He bent to pick up his glove.

She never looked away from his face, his eyes, and at last he gathered the strength to look into hers. They were wide, searching and luminous. Her face was flushed, her expression softly bewildered.

With his heart still pounding, he took hold of her limp hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing her fingers, not trusting himself to touch his lips to hers again.

"We will talk later. That is a promise." He owed her that much … and more.

Gently he took hold of her shoulders and moved her aside, then slid open the mirror and swept through it, needing to put as much distance between them as possible. Despite all inner arguments, he wanted nothing more than to return and pull her back into his arms, to continue down the heated trail he had led them. He could feel her eyes watch the entire time he retreated.

**x**

Once he faded into the shadows and she could no longer see him, Christine took a slight step back into the dressing room, slowly bringing her shoulder blades against the mirror. Exactly in the place where Erik had held her … touched her …and set her aflame. Her eyes wide with the memory of all that transpired, she slid down the cool glass, sinking to the rug.

Her breathing had steadied but her heart still thundered. She had no idea how she was supposed to go out and rejoin the others on stage, to behave like nothing had happened, when she felt as if she'd just been caught up in the fierce whirlwind that was her Phantasmal dark Angel and set down to earth just as swiftly. No, not angel. Not phantom. There was nothing vaporous about him. Flesh. Firm, solid flesh. Heated flesh and roaring blood. Fire and passion. Elegance and allure. Wild, dark, enthralling, demanding … she was just beginning to realize what it would mean to share a life with Erik, to share a bed with him … and her eyes fell shut, overwhelmed by the knowledge.

No longer did she fear his loss of interest in her; he had just proven those fears groundless. Nor did she continue to fear the prospect of what that imminent night might bring. Now she desperately anticipated the moment when he would wholly claim her as his own …

If only she knew when that moment was to be.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: ****… one thing I will say -with Erik, well, you can only push the poor guy so far ****… (and I do so love pushing all his buttons. ;-)) **

**Thank you SO much for the reviews! Please keep them coming! **

**I LOVE reading where you guys are with this and what you think will happen, what clues you caught, etc! :) It makes me smile and giggle ****… and sometimes give a wicked grin. ;-)**


	23. Those Pleading Eyes

**A/N: Loved reading your reviews and your thoughts about everything so far! Thank you – please keep 'em coming! :)**

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**Those Pleading Eyes ...**

**Chapter XXIII**

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Christine trembled, still feeling the shock of the latest rehearsal as she returned to her dressing room and quickly turned the key in the lock. She bowed her head against the door a moment, in relief to be away from all her tormentors, before hurrying behind the changing screen to slip out of the costume she had needed to try on. Any adjustments were made in privacy and would come later, but today Madame wanted to see how all costumes responded to movement while on stage and instruct the seamstresses accordingly. Christine hung her final change of costume on a rod, staring at the gypsy attire of the gold voile skirt, brown corset, and white peasant blouse in uneasy realization.

She should have known, somehow, when she first saw it. When Meg first brought it to her, unfinished, weeks ago. Then she had thought it peculiar for a nightdress for the final act. Of course, the corset had not been with it at the time, but she had shrugged off any perplexity, her thoughts filled with Erik.

They were still filled with Erik.

Now she understood his unhinged and volatile behavior earlier. He must have just discovered the truth before he'd come to see her.

Quickly she donned a simple dove gray dress of soft merino wool with a fluff of white frills at the throat and hurried to the dressing table to draw a brush through the wild tangles of her ringlets. Soon giving up on that stubborn feat, she set down the brush and stood to roam the small area, hoping he wouldn't be long in arriving.

The wish had no more than passed through her heart when she heard the mirror slide open and the quiet rustle of his cloak as he stepped inside. She turned and they stared at one another without moving, both tensely gauging the other's reaction.

Christine broke the distant silence first and walked into his arms, holding him close. "I'm so sorry."

Erik stood in quiet shock, wondering what she would have to apologize for. He had been the first to attack!

"The rehearsals started today …"

His eyes fell shut. She had no need to say more.

He had just left Madame Giry, who delivered the bad news. She had been prepared to speak to the managers as he'd ordered, when she heard them arguing inside their office before she could knock. Firmin had assured Andre that if the Phantom caused one more problem or made one more threat they would toss him, his opera, and his pet singer out on their ears. Erik wasn't concerned over their pathetic threats concerning living arrangements – they'd have to find him first, wouldn't they? – but they could easily damage Christine's operatic career before it had a chance to begin, and after hearing them speak, Madame chose not to carry through with his wishes. As much as that angered him, he knew she was correct. He didn't regret his little visit to their office; they needed put in their place and warned off Christine. But ironically, his effort to save her virtue and reputation might now cost him all he had ever dreamed for their future together …

The opera would go on.

"Imagine my shock when I prepared to sing the opening number of Arabesque and the musicians played a song from Don Juan instead." Christine closed her eyes at the troubling memory. She had stood there, eyes wide, mouth agape, the snickers of some of the dancers the only sound onstage to accompany the music from the orchestra pit below. "I convinced Monsieur Reyer that I would prefer to work on the last song first, that I needed more time with that number, but I'm not sure he or any of the others were impressed with my overall performance. I faltered a number of times and forgot my cue twice."

"It's not your fault. You don't know the opera."

His tone came quiet, emotionless. She suspected it a ruse, feeling the tension that coiled tight in his body. "Actually …" She tightened her fingers against the hard muscles in his back, hoping he wouldn't grow upset with her again, wishing she didn't have to speak but knowing she must. "I do know the lyrics to all of the songs." She lifted her head to look up at him. "Just not all of the music."

He narrowed his eyes in speculation. "How?"

"While you were ill, I …" She dropped her attention to his waistcoat buttons. "I looked through your operas. And committed the songs that Aminta sings to memory."

He didn't respond for a moment. She felt his fingers curl beneath her chin and tilt her sheepish gaze to his solemn one. "My little Prying Pandora. So you found and read my ill-fated opera … and Giry delivered it into their hands."

She winced at his bitter smile. His title for her and the way he used it came across as both an endearment and an accusation, and she dismally remembered the first time he called her by that name … and worse. Her dreadful curiosity to always know more was one of her most detestable faults and she wished he would again scold her, even rail at her, instead of looking at her so gravely, so sadly, as if she had betrayed him once more.

"I'm sorry, Erik, really I am. I didn't _mean_ to pry – I didn't really. I only thought …"

She was startled to feel his lips press hard against her forehead in a kiss he held there for several seconds before pulling away. She blinked in relieved confusion as she watched him retrieve her cloak from where she'd left it on the chaise longue. He came back to her, slipping it about her shoulders. The solemnity had not left his eyes, but at least he did not refuse her company after hearing her confession.

"Where are we going? Are we going far?"

When they went to the practice room, she'd never worn a cloak, and she didn't think he would take her to his lair, though she hoped he might.

She opened her mouth to ask if that was his intent. He placed one gloved finger lightly against her parted lips. "Silence," he whispered in a mild, warning way that made her entire body tingle, and she wished for his lips to replace the glove.

He led her through the mirror and closed it, but instead of turning right as they usually did, he turned left. Her curiosity magnified as they took the familiar secret corridor in a new direction, and she studied her surroundings.

Here, too, candles burned at intervals casting dim light to illumine the way as the narrow corridor twisted in different directions, following the bends and turns of the opera house walls, but never widening out as the cellars did below. They climbed a level of stairs – these not cut from stone but made of wood, and he led her to a small door that he had to bend down to exit through. It opened into the passage only a few feet away from the door to the rooftop. She watched with mingled awe and curiosity as he closed the door through which they'd come, the area blending into the wall as if no entrance was there, and led her outside.

Stunned, she gasped softly at the vision before her.

The sun was at its lowest point, no longer seen by the naked eye, but its rays streaked the heavens with feathery rose, lavender, and violet and filled the rooftops across from the opera in a shimmering bath of liquid gold. Paris was like a fairy tale in the twilight hours and as her dark prince led her by the hand, she smiled with pleasure to see a small covered table and two chairs in the shadowed wings of the statue of Pegasus. They stood close to the rooftop, but not so close as to be detected by anyone below. The air felt pleasant with the warmth of her woolen dress and cloak to cover her skin, the night not yet too cold to enjoy dinner under the stars that faintly twinkled from the outside swirls of a deep royal purple sky.

Two covered dishes sat on either side of a short silver vase in which a beautiful white rose stood. Once he seated her, she fingered the velvety petals of the open blossom, her heart skipping a beat to acknowledge his gift. She knew something of the language of flowers from what little Erik and later Meg had shared with her, every flower used as a silent message to convey like, dislike, or love between men and women, especially of the noblesse. In the rose, which epitomized secrecy and silence, while the color red meant love and desire, she understood that white conveyed the message of purity and innocence and strong hope for the expectation of things to come.

Looking into his eyes as he sat across from her, glowing green with a hint of gold in them she'd never before seen, the last vestiges of the setting sun making them clearer to see than ever, she read that same message there. And she suddenly realized that this was the first occasion she'd ever been with him outdoors, during what was left of the daylight. Perhaps that in itself was a sign of better things to come.

He poured them red wine and brought his glass to clink gently against hers.

"To fairy tales with no end and angels who have only the brightest of beginnings …"

She smiled softly at his strange but beautiful toast, confused by the glimmer of pain that crossed his compelling eyes.

"You will outshine everyone on the stage one week from tonight," he concluded. "May your career have no end, like the fairy tales you love so well."

She reached across the table for his gloved hand. "I love _you_ more. I know this isn't what you wanted, but Erik, please believe me when I say I don't think you have anything to worry about." She squeezed his hand. "Your Don Juan opera is wonderful, my favorite of what you've written so far. It's so intense, the story so beautiful and tragic. The passion of that last song takes my breath away and if only you could take the stage with me it would be perfect …" She hesitated at the disquiet that entered his eyes and remembered. "Forget those foolish shadows of the possible future. It's _not_ possible. None of that will happen, I promise you. My heart is devoted to you and I would never leave you for anyone else. I'm yours, mon amour. I want nothing more than to be _with you_."

His eyes glistened. The slight twist of a smile he gave seemed more hopeless than reassured, and he brushed his thumb over her right hand, distantly staring at it for some time, as if his mind had traveled somewhere not pleasing to him.

"Erik…?"

"What is done is done. I have tried to undo the mistake of the opera but I have failed. Fate, it seems, must have her way." His words came quiet and gentle, dark and sad. "Eat, Christine, before the meal grows cold." He lifted the dome over her plate to reveal _pork crepeinettes_ with a side of baby chickpeas and slivers of carrots in a glazed sauce. "It is what Pierre cooked. I had no opportunity," he said, almost by way of apology.

"It looks lovely." She smiled and wished she knew what to say to encourage him. "Will we be resuming our lessons?" He had told her that once rehearsals started, they would not meet at twilight, since he didn't want her to tire her voice, singing all day and then taking lessons at night.

"It seems we have no choice."

She tried again. "I know this isn't going at all as you intended and it gives me little more than a week to prepare, but I believe I can do this, Erik." She smiled brightly. "The songs, it's as if they're a part of me, that last song of the final act – as if it's a part of my soul."

"I have faith that once the curtain rises, you will prove your excellence to all who hear you."

She wished she could erase the infinite sadness from his eyes – in his eyes seemed to linger all the sadness of the world. And she wished she knew how to convince him that the opera wouldn't be the harbinger of disaster he expected. She resigned herself to be patient. She had not lived through the horrors he had on that night of the spirits, only heard about them. And only time could prove her words true and that cruel shadow of a future false.

Christine concentrated on the meal he so thoughtfully had arranged for her, and at such a troubling time for him. His desire to please her twisted her heart with love. It wasn't difficult to enjoy their repast, she had not eaten since that morning and it was a little known fact that dancers had the heartiest of appetites. Even with him apprehensive and silent, she preferred Erik's company to not having him there at all.

Once they finished and he poured her a second glass of wine, he spoke again.

"Christine, these last days have been difficult ones. I cannot explain my reasons for my dissonant and erratic behavior, not in a suitable manner; at times I myself do not understand my actions. But know this …" He took her hand in his where it rested outstretched on the table. "You alone, Mon Bel Ange, _you_ are what makes my song take flight. And it is only with you I wish to make music … _our music_ of the night."

She didn't know if it was the wine, the mood, or the magical allure of the man himself, but Christine found herself rising from her chair, releasing her touch on his gloved hand only as she came to stand before him. He looked up at her and she rested her hands on his shoulders, lowering herself to sit on his lap.

Without words she answered him, laying her palm against his jaw and pressing her lips to his, softly, slowly, again and again. When she drew back to look at him, she felt dizzy and warm, the intoxication of his kiss stronger than the wine.

His hand smoothed away from her face the frizz of curls the breeze blew there and tucked them without success behind her ear. "I should not keep you outside for much longer," he said quietly at last. "This chill air is not good for your voice."

"I'm alright. I feel very warm, actually."

"It is the wine."

"It is more than the wine."

He drew the backs of his curled fingers along the frill at her throat and moved two of his fingertips to stroke the underside of her jaw. "Christine …"

At the beautiful low timbre of his voice, and the manner in which he said her name, she experienced a tiny little shiver having nothing to do with the cold. He gave a sudden resigned smile and dropped his hand away from her neck.

"We should begin."

She found it odd that he would ask her to sing when she'd just eaten, since that broke one of his long-standing rules, but she nodded. "Where do you wish me to stand?"

"Tonight you will sit …" Gently he put his hands to her waist and helped her off his lap. She looked at him, puzzled, until he withdrew his instrument case from where it had been sitting near the table leg. "… I will play the songs you must know. You will listen and learn the music. But you must tell me if you grow cold."

She nodded with a smile of approval and returned to her chair. She clasped her hands beneath her chin, leaning forward in excited expectation. Pulling off his gloves, he picked up his violin and drew the bow across the strings.

His music broke the evening stillness in lyrical, emotive waves, reaching up to touch the stars that now surrounded them, afterward floating down gently where the notes found a safe haven and nestled inside her heart. And then he began to sing and she knew heaven had opened wide its gates to bless her with an angel's voice.

_But his voice filled my spirit with a strange, sweet sound, in that night there was music in my mind, and through music, my soul began to soar …_

The unfamiliar words glided into her head, and she smiled at their suitability to describe this magical moment with her wonderful dark prince, indeed every moment he had gifted her with his exquisite music.

Surely, in the face of such beauty and perfection, all would be well and their dream of a fairy tale would at last come true, to have only a beginning … and never an end.

**.**

**xXx**

.

The days moved steadily onward, as did the nights. Erik no longer slept during his nightmares.

Now he lived in them.

He still suffered harsh dreams when he did slumber, no longer of Persia, but now of one recurring dream that haunted. Each night, since the rehearsals for the new opera had begun, he relived the future shadow of the final act when Christine pulled away his mask. Each time her small, delicate hand reached for the molded leather and snapped it off, he woke with an anguished cry, often finding himself lying in a cold sweat. But if the nights were troubling, the days with their foundation veiled in misgiving and doubt had become the epitome of hell.

While asleep, his mind lived in a realm of imagination that he would eventually leave, shaking himself from its pretense of horror to wake into actual reality. But while awake, he faced the verity of all that was real, much of what his nightmares contained, and could not escape into another realm to evade what would happen.

His one saving light was his time spent with Christine. Conversely being with her also strengthened his darkest fear, their time spent together further enmeshing him in the sinister order of the shadows of what would come.

They resumed meeting in the twilight hours, though he didn't take her to his lair with all still out of order there. His continual desire to seduce her aside, his home was in state of utter chaos and would be until he finished what he'd started. He wondered if he was mad to think there could ever be any order for him, for them. The plans he worked so hard to build these past weeks, years, were they all for naught? Was his dream destined to die so that hers might live?

He chose also to dispense with meeting in the old music room for practices. The days and nights were difficult enough for her to learn all she must know without the added distraction of the ring of tall mirrors to inhibit her.

At first, when he learned of the grievous blunder of the mistaken opera, he had been livid, lashing out at whoever and whatever crossed his path. To seek vengeance and force change. But with each hour that passed, Fate laughed at his anxious desperation and futile attempts, ordering events in such a way to trap him in this new hellish reality. He had since then lapsed into a cynical, despondent sort of panic, watching his demise slowly unfold and being unable to do a damn thing about it but accept it with his usual approach of sardonic misery.

Though they could be overheard by anyone who happened to walk by, he took the risk and they met and held practice in her locked dressing room. The managers now knew of his close involvement with his talented pupil, of his personal plans for her, and in all likelihood, others who lived within the theater would soon discover that the Phantom of the Opera was Christine's teacher as well as her betrothed. Perhaps he had been wrong to keep the matter silent and that knowledge might now act as added protection for her, especially in lieu of the nocturnal mystery meetings involving the degenerate Buquet.

Outside the theater walls, Erik would remain nonexistent, as he preferred. The managers could ill afford any hint of scandal that a masked ghost who caused accidents in the theater had composed the new production. That would give no aid in selling tickets if the populace feared such an accident might occur while they watched … as he had originally planned a fatal accident to occur. And with this very opera …

Many times he _was_ tempted to torch the set or wreak other havoc that would force a swift termination of the production. The only insight that stayed his hand: by attempting to prevent future shadows, he could also single-handedly destroy Christine's career. They would know that the Opera Ghost had returned, and she would receive the punishment for his desperation to right a wrong.

If only he could convince himself that all would proceed as they had dreamed, despite the accursed, damnable opera that never should have been written …

And so he lived out his nightmare, at times fearful of losing her and desperate not to let it happen. During those times he emphasized to Christine what he wanted for them, both in word and deed. Other times, he resigned himself that he _would_ lose her, as if his hope for a life with her had become the shadows – of a present that would never come to pass – and he only fooled himself into believing such dreams could occur. His mood hectically dipped from expectant to fatalistic the closer opening night drew near. He found himself putting distance between them without conscious thought, behaving in a boorish manner that _would_ push her away. He was afraid to let himself believe; the disappointment sure to shatter what soul he had left if his plans did not transpire, so he began preparing for the worst. Little by little releasing her, then in the next moment holding her desperately to him as if he would never let her go, his mind at all times waging battle with his heart.

Three days before the opening of the new production, he stood high in the flies and watched the dreaded rehearsal. The acoustics in the theater were excellent, a soft-spoken word easily heard from above, and during a break in the dancing, the low, curt words of two ballet rats hounding Christine did not escape his notice. They had been ridiculing her failure to follow directions, and he debated strongly dropping some small, innocuous object at her hecklers' feet in warning to cease their taunts, when the catty words of the dowdy redhead who'd been sitting on Andre's lap stopped him.

"I saw him the other day," she spit out softly. "Your teacher. Or should I say _The_ _Opera Ghost!_"

Even from this distance, Erik heard Christine gasp and saw her face pale.

"So your great teacher is the Phantom of the Opera," the ballet rat went on snidely. "Tell us, Christine, why does he wear a mask?"

"Yes, I'd like to know that as well," the brunette Erik recognized as Lysette added.

Christine drew her lips in tight.

"It's not like any other mask I've seen," the redhead continued. "He wears it only on one side of his face."

"You should know, Chantel," Christine said bitterly. "You drew him in it."

The redhead smiled cruelly. "I wondered if you had seen that. Yes, Joseph has his uses," she drawled. "So, little songbird, what other lessons has your great teacher given? I imagine you lift your skirts for him too. Did I illustrate him accurately? Is he well hung?"

With his face heating in angry embarrassment, Erik clenched his gloved hands at the edges of his cape and drew in a rapid breath, his eyes narrowing at the disclosure of the culprit who had injured his Angel.

"What's it like to bed a beast? Without a nose, with skin like stiff parchment, and yellow, glowing eyes …"

Christine straightened to her full height, her own eyes glowing murderous. "If you saw him as you said you did, then you would know that none of that foolish talk of Buquet's is true. I am sick of your filthy mouth and cruel barbs. He's no beast."

"And _you_ have seen him? _All_ of him? I'll bet you've never seen under his mask though, have you?"

Christine didn't answer.

Chantel laughed in victory. "Yes, it's as I thought. I'll bet you want to though … I'll bet you want to so bad you can taste it. And now it will haunt you, to wonder if any of what I said might be true … to wonder what awful horrors lie underneath that strange, white mask he wears ..."

"Shut up, Chantel."

The redhead laughed darkly. "Well, well, the little songbird has itty-bitty claws! But you didn't answer my other question, and I want to know …" She looked at Lysette, who nodded. "_We both _want to know. What's he like, Christine?" The redhead purred as she walked in a half circle to Christine's other side and leaned near her ear. "_In_ _bed_. What's it like to fuck him? Does it feel good? Does that part of him stay stiff like parchment too? Or is his body as cold as death and as rotted as his face?"

The Phantom gaped at the crude malice directed toward his Angel but before he could drop his lasso at the slattern's feet in warning of what could come, he watched Christine whirl around and strike the little hellion hard across the face.

The redhead reeled from the force of the blow and lifted a hand to her cheek, staring at Christine in blank surprise then vivid hatred. Once Chantel lowered her hand, Erik saw a few beads of blood over three, long distinct nail scratches that covered her reddened cheek.

"Not so itty-bitty," Christine answered quietly and Erik smiled in surprise at her bold act, secretly applauding her, the first time he'd ever known her to defend herself to the others.

Lysette held Chantel back from charging forward with a hissed warning, "Madame Giry's coming!"

"You'll be sorry you did that, Christine Daae!" Chantel bit out through gritted teeth. She struggled against her friend's restraining arms, then completely shrugged her off and glared at Christine. "One day, you'll be _so very sorry_." She turned on her slippered heel, Lysette casting an uncertain glance at Christine before following.

The Phantom narrowed his eyes. Not if he could help it. He intended to talk to Madame soon about the prompt dismissal of the foolish harlot Chantel. No one would treat his Angel with such wicked spitefulness and think to get away with it.

He looked back at Christine, noticing how her body now trembled. She stood alone on that part of the stage, and he was tempted to use his ventriloquism and whisper his pride of her courage into her ear. Abruptly she turned and he saw a trace of moisture that glistened on her cheek. "Oh, Erik," she said sadly to herself and he tensed to realize she addressed him, though she didn't know he was there. "Why _must_ you always hide from me? Why _won't_ you let me see? I want to know …"

Suddenly she straightened and looked up into the flies.

He took in a harsh breath, her soft words tearing through him like daggers as yet another page of the nightmare unfurled with alarming alacrity … forcing them one step further down the shadowed path that led only to an inescapable conclusion of bitter remorse, pain and betrayal …

Forgetting why he had come, the Phantom whipped his cloak around himself and hurried away before her searching eyes could find him.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Oh, dear. (heh heh) Can you feel the tension building …?**

**0-:)**

**Thoughts?**


	24. This Haunted Face

**A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews! :) Am loving them! ... Angst lovers- again, this one's for you****… **

* * *

**This Haunted Face**

**Chapter XXIV**

**.**

Christine nervously watched Erik as, with eyes closed, he played the final aria from Act Three. She wasn't wary of him or what he might do to her – ever since that breathless moment at the mirror door that stood a short distance away as a continual reminder, he had not again attempted to initiate a similar embrace. Though she wanted him to. God, how she longed for moments like those in the chapel and in his bed and at that mirror! It was in those moments, much as when she heard his music, that she felt completely alive. His music made her spirit soar; his touch caused her blood to race, and absent of either one she felt lacking.

This past week he confused her with his inconstant behavior. One moment he snapped or growled at her, as if trying to push her into an argument or compel her to run from him. The next he pulled her tight against his heart in desperation, as if he would never let her go, begging her without words never to try.

She knew that his erratic conduct had to do with the new opera whose outcome he feared, and practicing the songs this entire week as a constant reminder certainly couldn't have been easy for him, but she sensed there was more to it than that. Some worrisome dread haunted and she wished he would open up to her and speak of it. Wished he would share with her … everything.

"_Christine_."

He snapped at her, pulling her attention from the mirror door to where he stood across the room, near the chaise longue.

"You missed your cue _again_."

"I'm sorry. I was thinking of … other things." If the flush that warmed her face didn't betray her thoughts, surely the area where her attention had been focused would have made them clear.

He glanced at the mirror, then quickly away again, to the violin in his hand.

"You must keep your mind focused and not allow it to wander."

"Yes, Maestro. Of course, Maestro." If he could so quickly forget or pretend that incredible moment had never happened, then so could she. She kept her voice soft, trying not to sound insolent, but she feared she engaged in a losing battle as her annoyance with his brusque attitude threatened to unsettle her. "Please, if you would begin again." She smiled sweetly and immediately focused her attention on the painted cabbage roses on the wall behind his head.

After no more than two stanzas he lowered his bow with a sigh.

"This is impossible."

"It has been a long day."

"You must learn to work past such petty things as exhaustion."

"Not all of us can be so impossibly perfect as you, Maestro."

At the innocuous tone of her biting words, he laughed without humor then wearily shook his head.

"I apologize, Christine. Clearly I am expecting more than you can give. I suspected that this would be difficult for you …"

At his clear condescension, her fighting spirit surfaced, refusing to allow her to quit, and she stood taller. "_Again,_ if you please, Maestro."

He lifted his brow at her firm order but nodded somewhat smugly. "As you wish, mademoiselle."

She frowned, realizing he had baited her to carry out what he desired. If she was oftentimes insolent was it any wonder with him for her teacher these past five years? But she gave all she had for the solo aria of Act Three, allowing the clarity of her voice to carry the notes in gentle persuasion when Aminta was to stand upon the moonlit balcony after the gypsy dance. Softly she increased her volume to express excitement and expectation, at last ending on a wistful prayer to experience true happiness by finding the man she would always love.

Afterward he lowered his bow and looked at her a long moment.

She clasped her hands demurely in front of her, her heart beating swiftly as she awaited his declaration, eager for the smallest nugget of praise, apprehensive of his usual scorn.

"Better."

In light of the futility of the past tedious hour of practice, his soft-spoken word glittered like a diamond, and she smiled.

"You must learn to put aside all conflicting emotions you are presently feeling and step completely into character, Christine."

She nodded, knowing that was one of her worst weaknesses. In life and on the stage – her inability to put her emotions aside and not react to what her heart felt at the time. She was doing her best at this moment to pretend to be aloof, when all she wanted was to walk into his arms and ask him to hold her and never let go.

She watched him bend over to place his violin in its case and buckle it. She blinked in surprise to realize he was leaving.

"But – you're not going already?"

"Tomorrow is a full day of dress rehearsals."

"Yes, and I am still uncertain of the final duet."

His eyes sharpened on her face as he approached the area where she stood beside the dressing table.

"You sing that song better than the rest of the opera."

"Yet I think I'm jumping ahead of my entrance at times during the actual rehearsal. Perhaps if you would sing it with me, Mon Ange …?"

He looked at her fully before responding, his features a bland mask and a match to the white porcelain he wore tonight. "I have watched. I have heard you. You are managing well."

She withheld an impatient breath. Except for the one time they had sung the duet together in his lair, he had not agreed to sing it with her again. She didn't understand his hesitance to do so, not anymore.

"But Erik, I really would feel better if you would sing …"

He reached for his black leather gloves on the corner of the table. One fell to the carpet.

They both bent to retrieve the fallen glove, he to grab it quickly and go, she hoping to grab it and hold it hostage before he could leave. The swiftness of their dual actions caused them to bump heads.

"Ow!" Christine lost her balance and fell to her backside, putting her hand to her brow at the harsh knock, strong enough to cause bruising and see a flash of stars.

He scrambled back so fast she didn't realize he had retreated so far, with his back now turned toward her, until at least a quarter minute had elapsed. She picked up his glove.

"Erik?" With one hand to the dressing table, she used it for leverage to help her rise to her feet, the fingertips of her other hand rubbing the tender spot on her forehead where she felt a tiny split. Drat her skin for being so sensitive. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Christine." His words came terse. He didn't turn to look at her but stood facing the mirror door. His reflection showed his head turned sharply to the wall, his hand covering his mask.

"Are you hurt?" She hastened a few steps forward in sudden concern.

"_Stay where you are!_"

She halted at his barked order and the anger simmering beneath his low words. "But I –" she broke off from saying she didn't understand, his reaction suddenly becoming very apparent.

It was late evening.

The paste was loose.

She had knocked into his mask.

"Erik … it- it's alright." She braced herself against his probable reaction and put her hand to his shoulder. He wrenched away from her as she expected he would.

"No – don't touch me! Just …" He walked a few steps ahead, keeping his hand over his mask. "I must go."

"You don't have to leave."

"Yes, I do." He scrambled for the mirror door, using the hand that held his violin case to slide it open, banging the case into the mirror in the process while keeping his hand firmly over his mask.

"I wish you would trust me," she said, hurting inside for him, for her, for the awful end to this evening that hadn't gone anything as she had hoped for this night before her premiere. Visions of being held in the reassuring warmth of his arms faded into vapor.

"This isn't about trust," he growled as he moved through the opening into the corridor.

"Yes, it is! It's _exactly_ about trust. It has _everything_ _to do_ with trust!" Hurt tears burned her eyes. "How are we to continue in this relationship if deep in your heart you think me an adversary to whom you show nothing but _dis_trust? Do you have any idea how much that hurts? How dreadful that makes me feel?"

She hated how her voice trembled with tears, hated how the back of his shoulders stiffened at her desperate, angry plea, then the mirror swiftly closed behind him and he was gone.

"Will you ever come to trust my love?" she whispered to the empty room.

Collapsing into her chair, she braced her elbow on the table and lowered her face into his glove, wetting the smooth leather with her tears, holding it to her lips, finally brushing it against her closed, wet lashes. At last her crying spell ended, and she softly hiccupped a few times then lifted her head to stare into the mirror at her stricken face.

A faint brown bruise had formed on the left side of her forehead above her eyebrow. Cosmetics would take care of that for tomorrow night's performance, but at the moment it served as a reminder of the latest reason for his absence …

As Christine sat there, she lost track of time. After awhile she knew it must be getting late. She should return to her dormitory; it could be dangerous to lurk about alone in the night. Still she couldn't muster any desire to move. Perhaps she would just sleep here on the chaise, as she had done once before, the first time he'd brought her back from his lair and she'd been too upset to return to her room … was it really only less than two months ago? Sometimes it felt like decades, sometimes like moments. Tonight … tonight it felt like an eternity.

Her swollen eyes lowered to the flickering of a candle's flame without really seeing it as she held his glove bunched in her hand and clasped to her heart.

Tomorrow evening marked the culmination of years' worth of labor, all she had worked so hard to achieve for the stage and her voice. But it was nothing, _nothing_ without him. Every day she felt as if she was losing him a little more and didn't know how to stop it. He had convinced himself that their future would be bleak and end in tragedy all because of an opera.

An_ opera!_

When would the world of pretense cease to order the events of her life? When would Erik shake himself awake to the reality and see the full truth of what he meant to her? Or maybe she should do the shaking!

Scowling at her woebegone image, she snatched up the handle of the hairbrush that lay beneath her left hand and threw it at the center mirror of the dressing table, giving vent to her angry frustration. She jumped a little at the harsh crack of metal on glass, blinking in surprise when a black spray of small lines appeared to mar her reflection. She hadn't thought she'd thrown the brush hard enough to do damage. The lines radiated outward from the center of her face, giving her a warped view of her blotchy, tear-stained visage and she stared hard at the distorted picture, her mind becoming lost in a black cloud of hopeless, angry and wounded confusion.

At a sudden click behind her, she jumped up from her chair and whirled around.

Her dark Phantom stood there, his eyes traveling over her tear-ravaged face then beside her to the cracked mirror, before settling on her once again.

He approached, his features drawn, seeming cut from stone. His eyes behind the black mask he now wore simmered with raw anguish and hopeless fury and something else she couldn't identify. She stared up at him in defiance, unable to withstand more of his cold callousness for one evening, hating that he now saw her in such a horrid state, but before she could ask him to leave, he took firm hold of her arm.

"Come with me."

At the low rumble of his tone and terse order, Christine trembled. For a moment she knew fear.

She couldn't voice a refusal but neither did she resist, grabbing up her cloak as he pulled her through the mirror door. As he slid it shut, the candles in the dressing room extinguished, casting the room in complete darkness.

He turned to the left, giving no thought to lighting the passageway and Christine stumbled in the dark, scattered candles in the distance giving off fainter light than when she had traveled this corridor with him before. She concentrated on keeping her balance as he pulled her along, his hand like a vice around her arm. Christine was anxious. Not of the darkness, but of the realization that she had again pushed him too far, despite Madame Giry's warning to be careful not to do so.

"E-Erik?" she asked when she could again catch her breath.

He didn't acknowledge her.

"Where are you taking me?"

He only hastened his steps. If she wasn't a dancer, Christine might have fallen or collapsed at the speed with which he took her through twisting passageways, some completely dark, until he stopped so suddenly she bumped hard into his shoulder. He pushed against a wall of stone and it opened. She blinked to notice the outline of an unlit lampstand in the distance, recognizing it as the one that fronted the chapel, and realized they had used this passage when he carried her through it once before.

"Why are we here?"

She wondered why she bothered to ask, since he showed no inclination to speak.

He pulled her into the chapel, swiftly lifting his hand with a brusque flourish to bring every candle in the memorial tiers to light, casting the room in a sudden dazzling glow of flame that made her flinch after minutes of obscure darkness. Pushing her down onto the bench seat, he released her. The sound of the wooden bar moving into place from above made it clear that he'd barricaded the door through his magic as well.

Rubbing her arm, throbbing and tender from where he had gripped it, and still holding his tear-dampened glove in her other hand, Christine stared up at Erik from her place beneath the window of stained glass. He stared at her a moment, his darkened eyes now shuttered of all expression, then pivoted on his heel away from her and began pacing.

She was surprised at his choice to bring her here, alone, after what had happened in this place the last time. But he seemed unhindered by thoughts of seduction or danger.

And he did not stop pacing.

"Erik?" Her voice barely cut through the thick and awful silence that settled like a shroud over the chapel, and shivering, she drew her cloak around her shoulders.

Still he gave no acknowledgment of her distressed plea, seemed not even to remember her presence there. Desperately she wondered how to reach him.

**x**

The Phantom felt cloven in two by the dual-edged blade of Logic that sliced through the futility of his maddened desperation. There was no longer any _choice_. There never had been any _choice_. He was a fool to think there ever could have been. Her parting words at the mirror more than an hour ago only emphasized what had been facing him the entire week. The spirits had clearly lied to him to bring things about as they preferred. It had been the plan all along.

_Their _plan.

He clenched his teeth. He could not look at her, could not see the great confusion and bare flicker of trust linger in her eyes, knowing that soon any mislaid faith in him would forever be extinguished and dread and betrayal would fill their place. He had brought her here for one purpose alone, a purpose that, if it went worse than expected would destroy him and could destroy her.

God, no. If a sacrifice was to be demanded, let him be the only victim. She would see, she would go. And he alone would be left to perish…

Once, she had come into this sanctuary, hoping to find a heavenly angel. This night he had brought her into hell to meet the dreaded beast.

_God, was he mad for doing this?_

But there could be no other way. He realized that now. It was the darkest fate, it was his, and he could no longer escape it …

Christine stared at the formidable man before her. She clutched the edges of the bench seat until the beveled stone scraped the pads of her fingers. Anxiety sank into dread as she caught sight of the hard, cutting edge to his jaw, the curl of contempt at his lips before he would then briskly turn to pace the other way, his cloak swishing about him like the wings of a great black-winged bird. Back and forth. Back and forth. Impressive. Majestic. Terrifying. Oh God, what had she done! Why was he so angry? More than angry … as if caught in a great void of despair where she could no longer reach him …

"_Erik?_" The whisper strangled in her throat, refusing to fall from her lips. She meekly swallowed down her plea, doubtful that he would even hear or acknowledge her if she did try to speak.

His blood churned inside his veins, a terrible living thing that adversely seemed to weigh him down with an impenetrable heaviness that threatened to make him suffocate. His temples throbbed. His hands clenched with harder pressure at the edges of his cloak on both sides until he was certain he'd cut off all blood flow to his fingers. He turned abruptly, the whoosh of air from the snap of his cloak snuffing out a close candle. How fitting. The master of darkness snuffing out the gentlest of all lights …

The Devil's Child had been forced to become the beast.

The little slave girl had been forced to remain with the beast.

Christine had never been granted opportunity to see the beast, coaxed to remain oblivious to what veiled the hideous blight at the crux of this mad pretense. Mad … yes, mad. The height of all insanity! He would have deceived her again, to keep hidden from her what Fate in her merciless comedy of dark tragedy would surely reveal at some point in this bizarre world of twisted shadows metamorphosed from a future that was never to be. NEVER! He heard a harsh whimper and realized it was his own.

He had never given Christine a choice. Never _once_ had he been given a choice.

And all of his life he felt enraged at the slight.

"Erik, please, you're frightening me …"

Christine gasped as he halted abruptly and pivoted to face her.

"That is what I do best, Christine. It is my scourge upon all mankind. _Surely you must know this?_"

At his cutting words that flowed like silk, she shook her head in distressed confusion. "No, I don't understand any of this …"

"Then allow me to explain, my dear." He seized upon the familiarity of bitter disdain as a rope to anchor himself against the pounding waves of anguish. "My own mother could not bear the sight of me. A mask was the first scrap of clothing upon this wretched form." His hand cavalierly motioned to the black cloth that covered his eyes. "My father abhorred the very thought of me and made plans to put me away, hidden from all _decent_ society." He sneered. "Before he could rid himself of the monster, his wife sold me to a band of traveling gypsies who caged me in a sideshow. The Devil's Child. Fitting name for a beast, do you not agree?"

Her face had turned ashen and she cringed. "Erik – no. You're not –"

"Not what, Christine? Not a beast? There are many who would dispute that claim."

"And does my opinion not count?" A steady resolve instantly braced her voice and a flash of hurt mixed with the growing anger in her eyes. "I _came_ _to you_, Erik. I _did not _run away. I met a man at the mirror that night. Not a beast."

"You met only who I wanted you to meet," he growled. "A magician in the guise of both angel and phantom. You came through that mirror because you were given no option. I pulled you into my darkness with my voice, Christine. I _deceived_ _you_ with my music."

The words cut into his heart; he was sure it must be bleeding. He refrained from telling her the ploy was only momentary, that he never exercised such power over her since. He never wanted a mindless puppet to dwell with him. He had wanted a living wife who would love him. Better now that she should despise him and live out her days as the celebrated soprano she would become, severing all bonds and forgetting he existed than to suffer as he would now be made to suffer.

He should have known that such peace, such dreams could never be his to claim. Monsters deserved no happy endings – those were reserved for the damned storybook princes and the delicate fair maidens with their gentle, beseeching eyes that could cut through the soul.

"Why are you saying such things to me? How did you deceive me? And why tell me this now?" Her voice wavered between tears and anger as she rose to her feet with the grace of an angel. Indignant beauty, fire and passion.

God, he could barely stand to look at her.

He paced away. "Is it so difficult to understand? I have the power to manipulate others through my voice. To force them to bend to my will. As I forced you."

He heard the rustle of her skirts as she approached. "That makes no sense. Why then, the notes? The bullying and the intimidation of the managers and the cast?"

He clenched his teeth against the pain of having her draw near, knowing she would soon run. "I play upon the emotions."

"Are you saying I have no heart?" Her affronted words, suddenly so close, pushed him to the edge of reason.

He whirled around, grabbing her arms in a punishing grip, hating himself for the shine of tears in her eyes. "I am saying, foolish woman, on that night _you had no choice!_ I incite fear. I incite trust. I incite whatever I damn well please!"

Her chin lifted. "Can you incite love? Because I don't think you can. If that were so, then you wouldn't have feared losing me! You could have forced my love – and we never would have needed to wait those eternal two years —"

He shook her hard to stop the words that could so easily flay his resolve. "Damn it, Christine, _what do you want from me?_"

"_I want you to stop putting distance between us,_" she yelled back, the tears now rolling down her cheeks, each one searing into his soul. "I want you to stop calling yourself a beast and expecting me to treat you as one! I want you to let me back into your home again! I want to share your music, I want to be with you – to spend a lifetime with you." Then softer, "I want your trust …"

_Trust._

There it was. The quiet word that shattered the crystalline bubble of reckless hope she had begun to resurrect with her tearful admission. He hardened himself to her plea and gestured violently to his mask.

"It always comes down to **_this,_** doesn't it, Christine?" He spit his words out like poison, taking cruel satisfaction at watching her blanch. "It stands between us, this insurmountable wall, and it always will."

"It doesn't have to."

Her words trembled so quietly from her lips he almost didn't hear them.

He closed his eyes to shut her out. He could not break. He would not let her do this to him. He would not fall under an angel's spell. A brutal laugh choked his throat at the irony.

Accidents had a way of happening. Mistakes. Operas.

The first time, she had told him, it was because of curiosity.

_God, why had she removed his mask the second time?_

"Erik?"

His muscles grew rigid at the soft confusion in her voice.

She would reject him. Everyone did. His mother, in her weakness. His father, in his arrogance. Even Antoinette had cowered from the monster he was, for all her claims that she never once feared him. For all Christine's sweet words, when she saw the truth she would leave him. His plans would be laid to dust in the smoldering ashes of his heart.

For ten long years he had remained hidden, for two eternal years he had denied himself her touch. He had done so because he couldn't tolerate the thought of her seeing and fearing the monster. But she would find a way, somehow he knew, she would. Her curiosity had been the cause of her downfall once before. It was only a matter of time before it would become his.

He could not tolerate the thought of her ripping away his mask in front of the multitudes at the damned opera. He had no plans to be on that stage, not anymore, but no matter how hard he struggled to prevent future shadows from occurring they seemed bent on weaving a warped course for his destruction in this present life. If not on the Don Juan stage, if not then, it would happen elsewhere. She would do it. She would destroy him, with that delicate, soft, pale hand …

"Erik, please –"

"You want to know, Christine?" The look he turned on her was wild. He advanced a step. "You want to see the monstrous face that is only half a face?"

She retreated the same distance. "No. Not-not like this …"

"Liar."

Her eyes were huge, her features strained. With fear. With doubt. With remorse. And so much more.

He felt no pity. It was too late. She had sealed her fate. He had sealed his.

"You want to know, _don't you?_"

He took another step toward her, his eyes threatening.

Again she retreated as he moved forward.

"You have always wanted to know, little Pandora!" he hissed. "The curiosity eats into your mind like acid. The desire to know what horrors lie beyond …"

She trembled all over, but suddenly she did not retreat. Instead her eyes now burned with a fire equal to his own, and she lifted her chin to face him down as he closed the distance with one final step. Her sudden rise to confidence infuriated him even more.

"So bold! So damn daring! You want to know, Christine? DO YOU? DAMN YOU, SAY IT! **I WANT TO HEAR YOU SAY IT!**"

"**YES!**"

In one violent motion, he ripped away his mask.

Her sharp intake of breath tore through what was left of his crumbling heart.

He shut his eyes in raw agony, unable to witness her horror. Before he could retreat back into the darkness and grant her the respite of disappearing from her life forever, he felt her hand softly pull away his wig.

**xXx**


	25. An Eternity of This

**A/N: Thank you for your wonderful reviews of last chapter (and also for the recent ones of A Phantom Christmas Carol!) They are a phanphic writer's bread & butter (all we get from this ****–lol) and so very much appreciated. :) And now, for one of those moments many of you have been waiting for ****…**

* * *

**An Eternity of This**

**Chapter XXV**

**.**

Erik's eyes flew open in utter shock.

Christine paid little attention to them, unable to witness the hopeless misery swimming in their beautiful depths, fearing she would cry again if she did. And surely, he would take that wrong too.

She had gasped in shock at the abruptness of his act, at the snarl of his teeth, at his eyes blazing a thunderous gray-green at her, so close, and feral in their anger. But not at his face.

For more than a month, on countless occasions she had imagined what his defect might look like, sometimes worse, sometimes better than the actual appearance before her. To finally view the truth of what filled him with such ruthless agony gave her no torment except for what that grievous emotion caused him.

Curious to learn what had so long been denied her, she let her eyes wander over his twisted visage, committing it to memory. The right side of his nose lay flattened at the outside, almost non-existent as the contours faded, blending in with the flat apple of his cheek. Warped reddened patches, uneven like splatters of congealed wax, marred the fragile-looking skin that also bore a few layers of uneven ridges, all of it starting below his cheekbone near his mouth and moving up past his eye to his forehead. There, the black wig had concealed a balding patch of bulbous skin with thinning brown hair. Angry red and violet veins protruded in narrow paths in that area of his scalp and still throbbed from his furious outburst. His ear, what there was of it, was misshapen, his eyebrow above his right eye consisted of only a few fine hairs, lighter in color, and his bottom eyelid hung a fraction lower than his left one. Her heart twisted to see the tear that fell from it, just as his eyes fell shut.

"Go, Christine, please _… just __… go __…_"

At his tortured whisper that dwindled to almost nothing, she remained, knowing if she walked out the door she would never see him again.

"How did it happen?" She was surprised her voice came so steady and soft when she wanted to fiercely sob for all the misery he had suffered because of this one physical imperfection. At the feather-light touch of her fingertips against his twisted cheek his eyes again flew open in disbelief.

_"Chri-stine __…"_

Her name on his lips came shaky and hoarse. A question, a statement, a plea … she wasn't sure which, perhaps all of them.

"A fire?"

He shook his head slowly, the expression in his eyes puzzled, vulnerable and anxious, as if not understanding her reaction and afraid to trust it.

She sighed. "I'm not going to scream and run, Erik, if that's what you're waiting for. I've told you since I found you in your lair over a month ago that this isn't what makes you who you are. You're not a beast. You're not a monster. You're a man." Her fingertips traced an uneven reddish patch above his cheek with extreme gentleness as she spoke. The skin looked thinner than on his left side, almost transparent in places, and she hoped her touch gave him no pain. "An accident?" She remembered what he said earlier. "Acid?"

He grabbed her wrist, pushing her hand away as if enraged. "How can you touch me now? How can you touch _that?"_

Frowning at his interference, she pulled her hand from his grasp, this time more firmly cupping that side of his head in her palm. Later, she knew she would weep into her pillow, perhaps the entire night. Now she prayed for strength to stay calm and not collapse under the weight of his great self-loathing and bitter anguish.

Her fingertips traced over the bulbous growth of fragile skin at the top, finding the texture smooth and warm, if lumpy, but not at all unpleasant. His veins throbbed warmly against the sensitive pads of her skin, making her hand pleasantly tingle. Touching this side of his face was like touching warm candle wax that had burned into smooth, curving swells in places. His hair was thick, except for that one spot at the top, almost reaching to the base of his neck, and she smiled, moving her other hand up to comb her fingers through the dark golden-brown strands, finding them just as soft and silken as they appeared and strongly preferring his natural hair to the coarseness of the black wig.

"Please don't tell me how I should feel, Erik. I am so incredibly weary of everyone in this theater telling me what I must think or what I must feel or what I must do, as I've said before. I am _not_ disgusted by your face. I want to touch it, _to touch_ _all of you_, so please don't try and stop me …"

She felt her skin flush hot at the bold admission, but was given no further opportunity to speak as his large hands suddenly grabbed her violently to him and his mouth crashed down hard against hers. Whether to punish and prove her wrong, whether to assure himself that she was truthful, she didn't know. She didn't care. All that mattered is that he was with her, close, and no longer creating distance.

The flame swiftly ignited inside, and she groaned, clutching the back of his head, her fingers entwining in his thick hair. With her other hand on his face she deepened the kiss and moved her body closer. She tasted his tears at the same time great gasping sobs shook his strong form and he suddenly wrenched himself from her, slapping his hand up to cover his defect and whirling away. He staggered a few steps before falling hard to his knees. His body bent over double as he braced his gloved fist on the floor, his cloak fanning like a terrible dark shroud around him.

Christine stood rooted to the stones in shock, horrified by his unexpected reaction and uncertain what to do. Before her eyes, he had collapsed – in grief? in anguish? – and she feared going to him would only make matters worse. Great sobs shook his powerful frame and tore through his throat. She stood helpless and silent, the tears she had tried so desperately to suppress now slipping down to burn her cheeks.

Erik worked frantically to regain control, to stanch the sobs and the tears, but once started they would not stop, ripping through his lungs, burning into his eyes and his face. His face. Oh God, his horrible face. She had touched it. She had kissed him. She had not run. She had not screamed. She had seemed angry that he thought she would. She had touched him as if she _enjoyed_ it, told him she wanted to, responded to his kiss as she always had before … God… _oh,_ _God!_

His arm trembled violently and gave way. He lost his balance, falling hard with his face to the stone floor. He heard her give a shocked little cry and rush to him, felt her hand grab his shoulder.

"Erik! Are you alright?"

She pulled him desperately toward her. Too weakened by strong emotion to resist he allowed her to roll him over. Her eyes were troubled, tears also wetting her cheeks while she searched all of his face as her hands also did, checking for blood or injury, and then somehow – he was never sure whether he moved or she did – his head was cradled against her breasts, the twisted part of his face held against her soft skin, as he half lay in her lap, her arms wrapped around him and his arms tightly holding her. He felt her kisses brush his hair and then she began to softly rock from side to side and quietly hum what sounded like a lullaby.

He did not feel affronted by her coddling but greedily soaked in this moment that he never could have believed would be possible, that no one but his Angel had ever given him, as far back into his memory as he could reach, from the time he was a very young boy silently and futilely begging those who tended him for a morsel of affection. A kiss. A hug. Even as little as a pat on the shoulder. She had not stopped kissing his head and holding him, and soon her pure sweet voice lilted quietly in a song he did recognize as the lullaby he once sang to her as a child.

How long they sat there bathed in silent tears, wrapped in tight embrace, Erik did not know. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. When the shock of the encounter began at last to fade and a shred of reason returned, he realized she shouldn't be sitting on the cold stones at such length and felt grateful that she wore a thick woolen dress and cloak and not a thin linen bed gown as before. He began to release her and lift his head, surprised when she tightened her hold around him as if not yet wanting to let him go.

"There is one thing I must know," she said softly.

He tensed waiting for the inevitable question about his face. He had never answered her about the reason for its deformity, and that would then undoubtedly lead to another question and another. He could not speak of such matters now. Felt too emotionally and physically weakened to try. "I cannot –"

"When you put me under your spell at the mirror, have you ever done anything like that to me before … or afterward?"

He blinked in stunned shock at the unexpected question. How could she remember and concentrate on _that_, which seemed so trivial in comparison to the monstrosity she had just witnessed?

"Please, tell me, Erik. I wish to know."

"When you were a child …" He cleared his throat of its hoarseness and felt the raw tenderness that would no doubt remain throughout the night from his harsh shouting and frenzied weeping. "I did so to calm you, shortly after you came here. Once … At the mirror …" He no longer wished her to believe a lie. "I did it to pull you through into the corridor, afraid you would be frightened when you saw I was no angel, only a man. But I immediately released you from my power."

"And you have never done it to me since then?"

"No."

"Then it is as I thought."

She sounded extremely pleased and in confusion he drew away from her, lifting his right hand to his face as he did and covering it, before hesitantly looking into her eyes.

"What is as you thought?"

"Whenever I hear your music … your voice when you sing, sometimes when you just speak, or when you play one of your instruments … it's as if my emotions are connected to yours in such a deep way that you have control over my soul. As if we are joined in spirit and you're pouring your emotions into me, making them my own."

He stared at her. "When has this happened?"

She laughed softly. "When has it not?"

He looked down at the stones, silent and uncertain of what to say, still fearful to assume too much.

She lifted her left hand to cover his right one spread against his face. He jumped a little at the contact but did not pull away.

"Whether you wear the mask or you don't is unimportant to me, Erik. I hope that you'll now feel comfortable to go without it if the need arises, especially when we're alone, and _I insist_ that you do if it causes you pain. But with or without that scrap of cloth doesn't change the way I feel about you. I love you, no matter your appearance."

His eyes swam with the moisture that gathered at her words and he blinked furiously, struggling to maintain the emotional balance he had fought so hard to reclaim. "You truly are an angel from above. I shall awaken and find this all a dream."

"Hardly. I'm no angel either. I'm flesh and blood and human and flawed, just like everyone else on this earth, and especially in this theater."

She lowered her hand to pick up his mask that lay near her skirts, hesitated, then offered it to him. He took it in his left hand, grimacing to see the thin cord broken and the silk torn from his furious unveiling.

"But _this_, I don't think I'll let you have back …"

He looked up at her decisive words that bore a trace of mischief, stunned to see her holding the wig extended from one finger. He reached for it and she grabbed full hold of it, pulling her hand away and bringing the hairpiece behind her.

She smiled sweetly. "No."

He gaped at her, uncertain of how to respond. He didn't feel angry or hurt; she didn't mock or pity him. But never in his life had anyone treated the matter of his face with such complete … irrelevance. How did one react when the reaction expected wasn't the one given? He watched, baffled, as she brought the headpiece back into view and slowly began twirling it back and forth, rocking it on her finger.

"How …" He cleared his throat of its hoarseness again. "How did you know?"

"I suspected it on the night I came to find you, the night we first kissed. But it wasn't until you became ill that I knew for certain." She glanced down, her expression somewhat guilty, before looking up again. "You thrashed around a great deal in your feverish state. The wig, it slipped a few times, and I had to readjust it. Your mask did too, but I didn't see your face then, only part of your natural hair. It was too dark to see well, I kept very few candles lit so you could rest, and I slipped the mask back in place with the wig."

His eyes widened, incredulous, more so with each sentence aired. "All this time _you knew?_"

She nodded and scooted closer to him on the stones. "I didn't want you to wake up after being ill for so long and feel uncomfortable without it. I assumed you would tell me about the wig when you were ready. Though I don't understand why you wear one." Her hand reached up to touch his hair with her fingertips. "I like this so much better." Her fingers wove through the strands as before, and she gently pulled her hand down letting his hair slide between her fingers.

"The mask doesn't cover everything," he barely knew what he was saying, still overwhelmed and confused by her reaction to him, to all of this. Teasing, but not unkind. Gentle and light, as if they were discussing anything truly ordinary.

She gave a slight shrug. "Perhaps not. But I would prefer that you never wear the wig when we're alone, Mon Ange. Your scalp is so warm, your hair so soft. I like this much better."

_Mon Ange! She could still call him her Angel after seeing his demon face? !_

Before he could grasp that startling fact she leaned close and pressed her lips to his very lightly, then gave a contented little sound at the back of her throat and pushed in deeper. Struck numb by her clear attraction to him, even after all that had occurred, his own kiss trembled before he pulled away. She drew her brows together in protest.

"It is late," he explained hoarsely. "You have dress rehearsals tomorrow. I should not keep you from your bed any longer."

Her eyes glowed and the expression in them grew softer. "Take me home with you to your lair again. Please, Erik …" Her hand moved to his jaw, directly beneath where his hand still covered his face. "I want to be with you tonight." Her other hand still curled within the strands of his hair at his scalp, which tingled at her touch, the first he'd ever felt the warmth of her hand there.

The hungry look in her eyes, the shy, husky way she spoke left no doubt as to her meaning, and he hardened instantly, glad for his cloak and the position in which he sat that helped to shield the evidence of his desire for her. It took a monumental effort to resist her plea, but he needed this one night alone to try to absorb all of what just happened, though he may never understand it. And she needed what was left of this night to sleep before a strenuous day of rehearsals began and much more. If he took her below, she would get no sleep, of that he was now certain. As powerful as his love was for her, it had incredibly strengthened two-fold in this baffling moment.

Gently he pulled her hand from his face and began to move away. Reluctantly she untangled her other hand from his hair so that he could fully rise from the floor. She grabbed his wig and took hold of his outstretched hand as he helped her stand to her feet.

"Soon, Christine, soon. Tonight, I need to be alone. You – you need to sleep in your bed … tonight." He refrained from saying more, his words too disjointed to make clear sense, his mind and tongue at odds and suddenly refusing to obey his fervent wish to be concise.

She nodded in resignation. "I felt you might say that. I suppose you're right. Tomorrow night is the opening." He saw the flicker of apprehension in her eyes.

"You will do well. You have learned much in a short time. I am impressed." He took his wig from her before she had a chance to realize it.

She pouted at his swift move and he almost chuckled. God, upon entering this chamber tonight he had thought he would never again smile, certainly not want to _laugh!_

"I heard all of what you told me, Christine. And I am … grateful." It was such an inadequate word to describe the enormity of all he felt, but his mind was too weary from being ripped apart with such powerful emotion to supplant it with another. "All of my life I've been told I must cover my face. To be without a mask in the presence of anyone, leaves me feeling … naked. When any such covering was ripped away from me, a beating or ridicule always followed. I … I am trying to understand all of what you told me. I have never had anyone tell me any of what you said. I would be a happy man if you would agree only to stay with me throughout the remainder of my days and ask that I never again remove the mask – " She opened her mouth to protest, and he gently pressed his fingertips to her lips. "No, there's no need. I have heard how you feel. I only ask that you … give me time to … accustom myself to the idea."

Her expression softened and she nodded, bringing her hand up to hold his. She kissed the pads of his fingertips, never breaking eye contact, and a surge of heat raced through his blood.

Recalling what had happened in this chamber room the last time they visited and how isolated from everyone they were at the moment, he felt it past time to leave.

"You must go back alone." His mental equilibrium had returned enough to take charge, and he instructed her. "I will follow from the shadows and ensure you reach your room in safety."

He walked with her to the entrance. This evening someone had forgotten to light the lampstand and they stood in shadow, the candles from the memorial area the only lights flickering behind them.

"Will you come to the rehearsal tomorrow?"

"No. But I will be at the opening."

She nodded, and he saw the shadow of her smile. "In Box Five."

"Of course. It is the closest box to the stage where I may gaze upon your beauty."

She gave a soft little sigh. "I will be singing only for you, Mon Ange."

Tears again threatened, tightening his throat. "Mon Bel Ange de la Musique …"

She smiled. "Until tomorrow night then, dear Erik …"

She raised herself up to him and he tentatively leaned down to meet her parted lips. Her hand again moved to cover the back of his hand gently, where he still covered his face, before she pulled away from their kiss and hurried up the winding stairs.

He stared after her, still not certain if what had happened wasn't all a fantastic dream. He looked at the wig a moment before pulling it back on. The torn mask he could do nothing about, and he thanked the hand of Providence he had earlier cursed for the darkness that concealed him. He shadowed his Angel to the stairs leading to her dormitory. She stopped then looked over her shoulder and blew a kiss to the shadows where he stood, before hurrying into her room.

"Until tomorrow night, Christine," he said huskily beneath his breath. "That, ma chèrie, is a promise."

**xXx**

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**A/N: For fear of causing any of you further health problems, as some have written that you are experiencing due to the content of these chapters and cliffies I leave behind, (bad nerves, heart palpitations, loss of sanity and the like)- I can safely say, I think you will like what's coming …**

**See, I can be nice. (heh heh)**


	26. With Every Breath

**A/N: Thank you so much for the great reviews! You guys are awesome and because you have encouraged me so much in this - my gift to you this Christmas, an early chapter. Short and sweet, but if I have time to work on it, another might follow on Sunday. :) **

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**With Every Breath**

**Chapter XXVI**

**.**

Christine slept with his glove beneath her pillow.

She cried herself to sleep, as she knew she would, but oddly woke up feeling refreshed, even hopeful. The hidden fear of the unknown had plagued her more than she had realized, the uncertainty of what lay beneath the mask built up in her mind to such a degree that it had overwhelmed her, and despite her brave words to him, she'd been frightened of her initial reaction to see the truth. The defect _was_ bad, it looked painful, and she couldn't help but sympathize for all the suffering he had endured because of it. But at the same time her relief was almost tangible, to know that she had passed whatever test he surely must have consciously or unconsciously held her to, but especially the knowledge that it had taken little effort to do so. The only effort had been in withholding her tears for his anguish, and in the end she had given way to them.

She had done what came naturally, following her heart, and all she had wanted was to hold him close, to touch that part of his face in discovery and bury her hand in the soft tufts of his hair she'd never known, and later, to go home with him again, to his lair. It had been over a week since he had taken her there. She had received three of her wishes, and the mysterious inflection of his words in the chapel led her to believe he might soon grant her the fourth, perhaps even tonight after the performance …

The performance!

At the realization of what day it was, she drew in a startled gasp that came out in a little squeak. Opening her eyes, she saw that the sun had just risen. She threw the blanket off, sailing out of bed. Without bothering to retrieve her slippers, which had clearly found their way somewhere beneath her cot again, she quickly padded to her friend's bed and shook her shoulder, startling her awake.

Meg blinked groggily in confusion, "Christine …?" Then her golden-brown eyes flew wide open. "The Don Juan!"

She also jumped out of bed with a squeal to see the rising sun beaming through the window, and they rushed to and fro in a flurry of shifts, corsets, pantalets, and stockings, waking the other girls with the noise they made as they dressed. Their roommates grumbled and tumbled out of their beds and soon the dormitory was filled with harsh exclamations and soft curses as the eight girls who shared the room with them hurried to don their clothes, the start of every morning at the opera house since Christine had come to live there at the age of seven. Sometimes less frenetic and not as harried, but always as crowded with scant room to dress.

Usually Madame Giry awakened them before now, and Christine wondered why she had not appeared at the door. Before she could air her mild puzzlement, Meg grabbed her hand and together they ran out of the room, just in time to avoid getting hit by a flying shift thrown by one irate dancer at another ballet rat.

First they must eat breakfast, and for Christine, it would be one of two meals for her day. Water with lemon would fill any later moments of hunger close to production and help her voice maintain its crystal purity needed for the stage.

Christine noticed Madame coming up the stairs. She seemed somewhat agitated but relieved to see them awake and ordered them to hurry to their meal. In the dining room where the cast ate, they each took a plate, filling it with cold eggs and bread from the bland fare Pierre had made. They dispensed with the usual giggling and light gossip, hurrying through their meal, washing it down with hot, bitter tea that tasted as if it had been in the pot since the night before. Christine wrinkled her nose as she quickly set the cup in the saucer and pushed away her plate, more than half of her food untouched. Pierre certainly could take a lesson or two from Erik!

"Don't look now," Meg groaned, "but the redheaded tart from hell just walked inside with Monsieur Buquet."

Christine pulled in a swift breath. The last thing she needed was to come face to face with Chantel on today of all days. "Is she looking this way?"

"They both are," Meg said with a scowl directed behind Christine. "But they don't appear to be interested in a confrontation at the moment. I never knew those two were so friendly …" Her words trailed off in curiosity. Suddenly she straightened, her eyes bright as they always got when she was about to divulge a secret. "That reminds me – yesterday when I was looking for Maman, I overheard Monsieur Andre scold her for firing Chantel."

Christine's eyes grew wide. "She fired her?"

"Well, she tried, but Monsieur Andre would have none of it. She's his latest pet, you know. When he asked why Maman dismissed her, she couldn't come up with one good reason that would satisfy our manager, and he told her to rectify the matter at once." Meg leaned closer. "I think your teacher was the one to insist on Mademoiselle La Tart's dismissal. I have never known Maman to dismiss a dancer from the chorus for the excuse of a lack of punctuality, the excuse she gave Monsieur Andre. Not on the day before a new opening."

Christine agreed. And it would make even more sense that her Angel would have instructed Madame to do that, if he had been watching from the flies as she strongly suspected on the day she slapped the redheaded terror. She had sensed his presence then, too. And she was rarely wrong in such knowledge, especially now that they'd grown so close in their relationship.

Thankfully, Chantel and Buquet left the room before Meg and Christine finished, eliminating any chance of another bad encounter and before one of the most important rehearsals of her career. The next several hours were an equivalent to the rushed morning and moved with such haste she didn't have time to miss her visit to her father's grave. The rehearsals went horribly, everything that could go wrong did – from the dancers' mistakes to La Carlotta's mini-tantrums, still not happy that her role as reigning diva had been usurped by "the leetle ballet rat" as she often called Christine – and poor Monsieur Reyer must have tapped his baton on the podium so many times both should have cracked by now.

Meg comforted Christine later that evening. "It certainly wasn't your fault. I rarely heard Monsieur Reyer or Maman scold you. Besides, rehearsals are always a travesty. You know that. Once the show begins, you will shine like the star you were born to be, and if by some grim chance anything does go wrong – knock on wood it doesn't ..." She rapped her knuckles three times against a beam, "it will likely be La Carlotta's fault for trying to upstage someone else or it will be one of the dancer's mistakes. But no one will notice them because all eyes will be _on you_."

Christine hugged her friend for her sweet reassurances, wishing she felt half as confident. With three hours before curtain call, she and Meg quickly ate a small meal of flaky, fried bread wrapped around small sausages, better than breakfast but Christine's stomach was too full of butterflies to do any food justice. After only a few bites, Christine excused herself from the table and went to her dressing room to lie down for an hour to rest. But she couldn't rest. She could barely keep her eyes closed for more than half a minute.

She tossed and turned then stared at the ceiling. She was being foolish again, acting like a child. The most important night of her operatic career lay before her, all thanks to her incredible Maestro, who was also at last her lover. Many of her dreams that at times seemed hopeless throughout the past years had actually come true. She certainly had no reason to sulk over such trifling matters as forgotten greetings.

The hours slipped away and before she quite understood or was ready, the curtain parted, the lights blinding her view of the packed house, and Christine took the stage for her first number. "This is for you, Mon Ange," she whispered beneath her breath, wishing to still her jittery nerves. The intro to his music began. She opened her mouth to sing her first line, saw the curtain at Box Five stir, and from that moment on she forgot all her fears.

Knowing her beloved was there, watching from above, gave her a burst of needed confidence she hadn't felt all day. She sailed through her lines, hitting all her cues and lifting her voice with perfection to match whatever mood was required.

When the time came for her to sing her solo at the end of Act Three, she smiled to realize she faced Box Five. Instead of singing to the full moon, as Aminta was scripted to do, her eyes surreptitiously sought out the shadowed alcove directly across from her, the smile on her face and the words on her lips only for him. As her voice rang with crystal clarity on the highest note, she thought she saw the curtain again stir, a black glove clutching its edge, and she prayed that he felt all that was in her heart to offer, the entirety of who she was and wished to give.

The audience response was astounding, their applause thunderous, and showers of single pink roses were tossed upon the stage. She smiled with relief, greatly pleased by her success and the crowd's positive reception, but her heart soared in the most delight yet to suddenly hear his quiet, lyrical voice magically directed in her ear, "Brava, ma chèrie … Je t'aime pour toujours…" and she clutched the edge of the high balcony, feeling as if she might surely float away.

But there was no time to float away or even think of his avowal of eternal love as Madame motioned her down the narrow staircase and to the ground then instructed her to hurry to her next costume change.

The night progressed, each aria becoming easier to sing than the one before it, as Christine grew more comfortable in her role. With every breath, she poured her love for Erik into the sensual and beseeching lines.

"No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy … no dreams within her heart but dreams of love!"

Tempted to turn her head and look up at him, she squelched the idea at the last moment, sitting down with her basket to twist the thorns off the roses and await Piangi's entrance. But she could not help the secret smile as she thought of _his_ roses and the night of her operatic debut when he'd given her one such as this, tied with a shimmering black ribbon. Her mind briefly dipped into that moment at the mirror and their first journey down to his lair, and when next she sang her lines, there was a wistful, ethereal quality to her voice, its reason not apparent to the crowd but surely understood by the man in the shadows to whom she turned her eyes upward as she again looked toward Box Five.

The finale was explosive in performance and received another standing ovation, followed by at least half a dozen curtain calls, where Christine was bestowed with armfuls of roses in all colors. She beamed at the adulation, gracefully nodding her thanks, thrilled that they also clearly loved her genius Maestro's work. She felt impatient and eager to see him, hoping he would come to her dressing room soon. The night had concluded without grave consequence, the opera not the precursor to danger Erik had expected, and she couldn't wait to share with him in their greatest triumph.

Traversing the area backstage and to her dressing room proved difficult, the narrow corridors crowded with every form of teeming, excited humanity. Many that she brushed past reached out to her or tried to touch her somehow and congratulate her. Such odd familiarity made her nervous, especially since only days before a number of this multitude had treated her with contempt, and some still did, as she noticed some members of the chorus cast reproachful and envious glances her way.

Madame shooed a path for her to the dressing room. "Rest while you can," she told Christine, opening the door for her. "I will be in shortly."

Christine nodded in relief, spotting Meg in the distance laughing and sharing a champagne toast with two male dancers before the door closed and Madame locked Christine in from the outside, away from all the noise and pandemonium. She grinned to have witnessed Meg's exuberance, but for herself wanted nothing more than the soothing quiet and to be held in the arms of her Angel.

She had hoped he might be waiting for her, but the room was empty.

Shrugging aside her disappointment – realizing he was probably on his way to see her even now – she went behind the dressing screen to change out of her costume. Once that was accomplished, she pulled her ivory silk wrapper over her corset and tied it, moving away from the screen and to her dressing table.

She saw his gift immediately and smiled in excited pleasure, again recalling the first time she had received a similar token, after her singing debut in Hannibal.

There, on the dressing table, lay a long-stemmed red rose tied up with a narrow ribbon of black satin.

A secret meeting indeed, she thought with delight and looked at the mirror door, but it did not open. Perhaps he had left the rose while she was onstage. She moved closer to take it in her hand and enjoy its sweet fragrance. The flickering glow from the nearby candelabra cast golden light on the colorful blossom and its leaves, making one glitter strangely.

She halted in curious shock, her heart picking up speed, then quickly moved forward and lifted the rose. Her eyes widened at the ring of gold that held a diamond, tied at the end of one ribbon. Blinking, uncertain if she was seeing things, she took the ring in her hand. It remained solid, the setting beautiful and delicately engraved, swirls of twin gold roses entwined together and holding a round diamond in its center. She gasped in bewilderment, her mind and heart in a daze, and then heard a whisper of material rustle behind her.

Her heart jumped a beat, and she swiftly turned around, coming face to face with the prince of her dreams.

"Erik," she breathed, dizzy with the shock of this moment and his swift and sudden presence there. Silent, enthralling, majestic. In evening dress, he took her breath away, and she stared up at him in wonder, thinking how much like a prince he really did appear. A true noble by blood …

"Christine, you were exquisite," he began, the timbre of his deep voice gliding like the brush of silk over her senses, soft and sensual, making her tremble. "I wanted this day, this night, to be all that you ever dreamed it would be. And I wish you the happiest of birthdays, Ma Bel Ange." He lifted her hand to his lips and brushed them over the back of her fingers.

Tears gathered in her eyes. "I didn't think anyone remembered."

"I could never forget a day so special that brought you into this world." His eyes glowed like twin emeralds, mysterious, rich and elegant though his expression seemed uncertain, almost boyish and shy. "Will you do me the consummate honor of sharing the rest of your life with me, each night and each morning, all of your years yet to come, to flourish in the promise of our years spent together? Christine … will you marry me?"

She gasped a little then sobbed, the beautiful ring suddenly making perfect sense, and the tears spilled over onto her lashes, gliding down her cheeks. At last, to hear those precious words …

He looked at her, worried. "I did not wish to make you cry."

She shook her head, smiling. "I cry only because you've made me so happy." She nodded then. "Yes, Erik. I would be most honored to marry you."

His eyes sparkled with relief, perhaps joy, before they briefly closed and again he kissed her hand he still held, his lips this time brushing the insides of her fingers. Despite her answer, he seemed oddly reticent, and she tilted her head with a curious smile.

His answering smile came less confident. "I have one final request I must ask of you."

Puzzled, she nodded for him to go on. He hesitated then gently took her by the shoulders and turned her toward the chaise longue. The lace wedding dress that had been on his mannequin lay there in shimmering folds of the purest ivory.

"Will you marry me tonight?" he whispered against her ear.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Merry Christmas to all who celebrate it! **

**Hope your holidays are wonderful! :)**


	27. Let the Dream Begin

**Let the Dream Begin**

**Chapter XXVII**

.

Christine stared at the elegant wedding gown. Her eyes went wide. Her mouth parted. Her body froze, immobile with shock. She must have swayed for he suddenly grabbed her from behind, his large hands spanning her waist.

"In the chapel there is a priest waiting to perform the ceremony," he went on quietly. "You have only to say the word, Christine, and we can be married within the hour … But if this is too sudden, if you wish for more time –"

She blinked from her stupor. "No."

"No?"

She moved abruptly to face him. His visible eyebrow sailed up in uncertainty.

"No, I don't wish for more time and yes I'll marry you tonight."

His eyes fell shut in disbelief; when he again opened them, moisture made them glisten. "You have made me the happiest of men, Ma Bel Ange."

Suddenly, she wasn't sure how, the ring was in his hand and he lifted her finger to slide it over her knuckles, then lifted her hand to drop a kiss to her finger over the ring once it was in place. She admired its delicate perfection and how it seemed made for her hand. His fingertips stroked beneath her chin and tilted it upward, his lips descending on hers in the softest of kisses that made her heart melt …

A slight knock rapped at the door. Christine hoped whoever it was would go away. Much to her surprise it opened seconds later.

Madame Giry appeared, holding a ring of keys, and Meg came in behind her. Madame quickly closed the door and again locked it. Both women looked at them expectantly.

"Well?" Madame asked.

Erik nodded, his lips curling up at the corners. "For once Fate has smiled on me, Antoinette. Congratulations are in order. She has agreed."

Madame sent a gaze heavenward. "Hallelujah for that!"

Meg rushed forward, holding back only a little at the sight of the masked Phantom of the Opera in evening dress and cloak, but she nodded once toward him with a nervous smile then grabbed Christine's hand. "Oh, Christine, I'm so happy for you!" she squealed and gave her a quick hug before pulling away. "Maman only just told me of all this. We have much to do to prepare. I'll help you dress."

"And that is my cue to leave," Erik said.

It quivered on the tip of Christine's tongue to ask him to stay; everything was still so unreal to her – was this truly happening? At last? And so suddenly? She needed no affirmation, however, the rare happiness and gratitude that glowed from his beautiful eyes proof enough. Upon further consideration, she wished him to see the finished vision of what she hoped to be, not view her mad rush to arrive to that point.

With a gentle kiss to her cheek, he left. The next quarter hour was spent in hurried preparation, with both Meg and Madame helping Christine to dress in stockings, slippers, chemise, underskirts, and at last, the enchanting gown.

"After the ceremony you will need to come backstage and make an appearance," Madame said as she smoothed the folds of Christine's gown at the back.

"Oh, but –" Christine frowned, knowing Erik would never agree to accompany her in public, even though it was _his_ show. She had no wish to be separated from him anymore that night, even for several minutes, and certainly not after their wedding!

"You have no choice. You are the star of Don Juan Triumphant, and as the star you must greet your admirers and speak with the reporters. You must make an appearance, Christine. It is expected of you, especially on opening night." Madame straightened and came around to the front, making small tweaks and adjustments to the gown as she did. "I have secured you enough time, so that you may be married first – the priest has another engagement, which is why the ceremony must take place within the hour. I told those wishing an audience with you that you are in need of rest but will speak with them later, when you are able."

Christine nodded, resigned to her fate as the new diva. "Does Erik know about this?"

"He does. And understanding the ways of the opera better than most in this theater, he also knows that your brief appearance before the masses is important. For you not to make an appearance could be bad for business, especially considering what happened after your debut in Hannibal. But at the time you were not the lead; now you are." Madame looked at her and smiled in encouragement. "Do not look so glum, my dear. I promise when all is in order I will take you to him. You need do no more than make an appearance. No more than twenty minutes at the most."

"No more than that?"

"No more than that."

Meg brought a bouquet of white roses for Christine to carry, a gift of many from one of her new admirers, but she shook her head. She needed only one rose and lifted it from the dressing table. Of all his roses to her, this was the most special, to indicate the most important of their secret meetings.

Meg gave a dreamy sigh. "Oh, Christine, you look radiant. Only you can come off the stage after a full day of rehearsals and a night of performing a complete opera and still manage to look so … well … see for yourself." With her last words, Meg turned Christine fully to the mirror door.

Her eyes widened. She looked like an angel … or perhaps a fairy tale princess.

The gown sparkled in its generous expanse of lacy folds, with small white rosettes attached to the corner of each sleeve resting beneath her bared shoulders. Her hair was a shimmering cloud of long perfect ringlets, the hairdresser's tedious work still intact and magnificent, and Meg brought a handful of curls to rest over Christine's shoulder. A Fair Winter Rose, he had called her once. And he was her Fiery Phoenix. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed and she could barely contain her excitement.

Madame came up behind and gently fitted the veil over her head, a circlet of white rosettes to match those on the dress and holding a sheer width of netting that surrounded her like a sparkling mist. Meg looked at Christine's reflection in awed wonder, and Christine smiled at her in the mirror.

"Oh, Meg. Is this really happening?"

Meg grinned. "To think, was it only six weeks ago that you were worried he wouldn't show up to take you to the ball? And now you're about to become his bride! And on your birthday – what a gift!" She grinned at Christine's surprise. "No, I didn't forget the day, only to wish you well in the upheaval of getting ready for the new opera. Happy Birthday, my dearest friend." She reached up to kiss her cheek and tears filmed Christine's eyes.

"Don't make me cry," she laughed at Meg, clutching her hand. "The last thing I want Erik to see is a bride with a blotchy complexion."

"I'll bet he wouldn't care one bit …" Meg's words trailed off as if she was about to disclose something important. "By the way he looks at you and treats you I can see he does care for you, Christine. And I really and truly _am_ happy for you, mon ami." Tears filled her own eyes and she made a face. "Now I'm making myself cry!"

The two girls laughed softly and clutched hands more tightly.

"He has worked very hard in these past weeks to bring about this night," Madame said, making a last soft tweak to Christine's tiered gown.

"Weeks …?" Christine blinked in astonishment.

He had planned this _for_ _weeks?_

Madame heard her strangled surprise and smiled with understanding. She took gentle hold of her shoulders. "One thing you must always bear in mind, child, with a man like Erik, who has known only suffering and solitude for so very long, he may not always be quick to express his feelings, especially if he is uncertain if they will receive a favorable reply. You must be patient with him in such circumstances. Simply love him and never fail to show him that he is a man of great worth, as I already know you can and will do, and you will have a happy marriage indeed."

Christine nodded solemnly, feeling as if an assignment of great significance had been passed down to her, one that belonged to her alone and only she could fulfill, and she felt eager to give over every part of herself to succeed.

"Now come." Madame moved aside the mirror but needed no torch. Christine blinked in amazement to see the passageway to the left was well lit, every candelabra blazing brightly, casting the secret corridor in shimmering gold as it had been the first time he opened to her the mysteries of his world. "Your bridegroom awaits."

Christine didn't need to be told twice. She lifted the hem of her gown and, with Meg beside her holding up her train to keep the shimmering material off the damp stones, eagerly followed Madame to the beginning of the new life that awaited her with the man she loved above all else, who was once to her only an angel.

**X**

Erik paced the chapel stones, sensing the corpulent priest watch from where he stood cloaked in ceremonial robes in the center of the memorial tiers. He could sense the elderly man's concerns and trepidation, but said nothing to him, except what had needed to be said before Christine's arrival …

Christine.

He took in a shaky breath. Did he dare hope that this night was unfolding as he had long desired? Had she truly agreed? Or was this only another dream?

He turned to pace in the other direction, his cloak whipping about his legs.

It seemed as if hours not minutes had passed ... perhaps she had changed her mind and would not come. Only last night he had unveiled the horror of his face to her in this very chapel. She had been so compassionate and held him tenderly, treating him no differently than before, but perhaps after dwelling on the memory of his face she had reconsidered her hasty response to marry him tonight. To marry him at all. He had sprung the question upon her suddenly, giving her little time to think. He still couldn't fathom her easy acceptance of his gruesome visage and wouldn't blame her for changing her mind to wed a beast. But God, how would he bear it if it were true?

The rasp of stone grating against stone in the distance brought his frantic pacing to a swift halt and he abruptly looked toward the chapel entrance, his heart beating fast.

Soon a vision of heaven filled the dimly lit chamber with her lissome grace and matchless beauty. Her luminous eyes widened at seeing the sprays of white roses on either side of where he stood and a pathway of petals of the same color that lay scattered upon the stones, before her tender gaze turned up to him and there it remained. He gaped in wonder at her approach. She looked breathtaking, an Angel bathed in candlelight. Only when her hand touched his arm did he realize Christine must be real and not the likeness he had begun to believe his mind must have conjured in his fervent wish to have her there. She was stunning, exquisite, her beauty unsurpassed by any mortal. His heart lurched to see that she carried his rose in both hands, her unspoken message touching his heart.

"I have to ask this, child," the priest interrupted Erik's glowing mental assessment of his bride. "These circumstances are most unusual, and I must know before I agree to proceed. Are you here by your own will and not being coerced into this union?"

Erik frowned, not surprised that anyone would balk to join her hand to his, though even he would not threaten a holy man of the cloth to obtain what he desired. He may not understand the God that Christine served, but he possessed a reverential unease when it came to sacred matters that compelled him to keep his distance, especially after his alarming night with the spirits in their world.

Christine slipped her hand through his arm and faced the priest. "Yes, Father, I am here by my own will." She smiled sweetly. "You must understand that with my sudden rise to fame it is my wish to keep my personal life confidential from public knowledge at this time. Surely you've heard of marriages performed in secret for those in similar situations, women who have felt as I do and wished to keep such important matters sacred, not allowing opportunity for them to evolve into a curious spectacle?" She looked up at Erik. "I love him," she added simply. "I want to spend my life with this man."

Erik stared into her shining eyes in amazement, stunned that she had so cleverly manipulated the situation to represent a lovers' secret tryst and not expound the need for him to hide himself away from the world. Her quiet words put the priest at ease, for his heavy jowls creased as he smiled at them both.

"Then, by all means, let us proceed." He looked at each of them in turn, his manner becoming grave as befit the solemnity of such an occasion. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the presence of these witnesses, to join together this man and this woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God in the time of man's innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that exists between Christ and his Church …"

Erik listened with shock, with wonder, the entirety of this tremendous moment becoming astonishingly clear. Christine, in all her beauty and grace, stood beside him, here with him, to become _his wife._ The gravity of that hallowed truth shook him to the core, as he never believed possible, and moisture wet his eyes.

"…Wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health: and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her so long as ye both shall live?"

Erik tenderly looked at Christine, expressing the extent of his heart in two soft words. "I will."

Tears also glimmered in her eyes, and her smile was radiant.

The priest turned to her. "Wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health: and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him so long as ye both shall live?"

Christine nodded softly at Erik as she spoke the simple words that would forever bind her to him. At last. "I will."

The priest instructed them to join right hands, and Erik took her small hand in his glove, knowing what came next, having read the words many times in literature.

"I, Erik, take thee Christine, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance: And thereto I plight thee my faith."

She gazed at him in wonder then blinked slowly, as if awakening from a dream, and repeated word for word what he had said, the vow long inscribed in her heart.

"I, Christine, take thee Erik, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance: and thereto I plight thee my faith."

The priest continued with the ceremony as Erik and Christine stared into each other's eyes, saying without words the depth of all they felt for each other.

At the minister's pause, Erik looked at him, and the man nodded. From the slit pocket of his waistcoat, Erik pulled out a gold band, a match to the first ring, and took her hand in his, slipping it over her finger to meet the other ring. He spoke the vow as the priest earlier instructed him.

"With this ring I thee wed, and with my worldly goods I thee endow, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."

Christine's eyes went round in shock, her mouth dropping open to see the second ring, and Erik grinned, pleased to see her surprise. Her eyes lifted up to him, shining in awe.

The priest took both of their right hands and again joined them, laying his hand over theirs.

"Forasmuch as Erik and Christine have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have pledged their faith either to other, and have declared the same by joining of hands; I pronounce that they are husband and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder."

For a moment, they could only stare at one another, the realization still vague that their dreams shared, together and individually, had forever become the sweet verity of their future.

Erik lifted his hands, skimming her jaw with his gloved fingertips, as he looked deeply into her glowing eyes. "Mon amour, mon épouse…" he whispered before his lips touched hers in a kiss of reverence.

Christine gasped at his touch, his endearment. Hearing his words so softly spoken claiming her as his wife gave wings to this wondrous, sacred occasion and she felt as if she could soar. The swift realization that _all _of her dreams had come to pass – that he had granted every one of them in one single night, on this, the anniversary of her birth, the day her father always made special for her, and this night, Erik had accomplished the same in a manner that could never be surpassed – made Christine want to weep for tremendous joy, and she pressed closer, deepening their kiss, forgetting all else but him.

At the sudden brisk clearing of Madame's throat, the two lovers broke apart.

Her former ballet teacher walked up to her with a smile. "I wish you well, my dear. Never forget, I am always here to speak with if you need me for any matter at all." She hugged her close then moved to Erik. "I have no need to tell you to cherish her and always put her first, because I know you will. I am thankful to be here, Erik, to share in your happiness, and I wish you a lifetime of good fortune." She embraced him, to Christine's shock and his as well. He hesitated, as if uncertain, then brought his gloved hand to rest against Madame's back.

Meg suddenly rushed toward Christine, her face wet with tears, her hug exuberant. "Oh my, that was just so beautiful! If ever I do marry, I hope to have such a wedding! Just seeing the love you two have for one another made it special." She hugged her tightly again and Christine returned her fervent embrace, both of them smiling and laughing lightly, then Meg pulled away and glanced at Erik.

To Christine's shocked delight, Meg gave him a small awkward curtsy, as if greeting nobility then turned red in the face. "I have no idea why I just did that," she said, flustered. "But, I … I wish you well, Monsieur Phantom."

Erik looked at her strangely for a moment, then took her hand in his glove and bent to kiss her fingers in a thoroughly genteel fashion. Meg stood dumbstruck, blinking at him like an owl.

"I owe you my gratitude, mademoiselle, for the friend you have been to Christine," he said with eloquence, his manner warm and refined. "Also for your kind acceptance that she grew to care for a phantom, who in truth was no angel beyond the disguise. Only a man who wears a mask."

His eyes twinkled with mischief and she smiled somewhat bashfully at the memory of their opening words at the Bal Masque. Christine felt relieved to see evidence that her dear friend had finally accepted Erik. She hoped this was only a start, and that in time others would release their prejudices against her beloved to see him for the truly wonderful man he was.

The priest watched the interaction between Erik and Meg, by this time appearing very interested, and Madame put her hand to his shoulder, escorting him to the door. "Father Dupres, we are grateful for your time. Before you must leave us, I have something I wish to discuss – Meg, come along," she called over her shoulder, "let us give them a moment of privacy before we must take Christine back with us."

Once the women and the priest disappeared around the bend of the corridor, Christine turned to Erik. "I don't wish to go …"

"I don't wish to let you."

"You could come with me," she said hopefully, already aware of his answer.

He shook his head slowly in denial, his gaze dropping and coming to rest at her cleavage. His eyebrow slowly drew inward in puzzlement. She looked down to see a finger of the black leather that Meg must have dislodged with her enthusiastic hugs and watched as he plucked his glove from where she had concealed it near her heart the entire day.

He stared at the now wrinkled piece of leather in confusion then looked into her eyes in question.

She pulled at her lip with her teeth in smiling embarrassment. "I, um, was keeping it safe for you?"

His expression softened with wonder as he came to understand the reason for her sentimental act, and she gave up the silly ruse.

"You may have it, if you wish for it back, of course, though I see you do have another pair. But the glove is no longer necessary, for now I will always have _you_ to hold close, dear husband."

At her tender, whispered words that felt like liquid gold to her tongue, he inhaled a swift breath and drew her suddenly into his arms. She never wished to leave them. They held one another close, relishing their first private embrace as husband and wife. Needing his kiss, Christine lifted her face to his in silent appeal.

Erik's lips brushed hers with sweet reverence, his kisses soft and tender, making her feel cherished and safe. At the sudden light touch of his tongue against her lip, she groaned softly and a flame warmed her blood. She pushed her tongue impatiently forward into his mouth, and this time Erik quietly groaned. When the earth seemed slowly to spin, he broke their impassioned kiss, lifting his head. She moved forward, not wishing to stop, and he took firm hold of her waist, pushing her away but not letting her go.

"If we continue this, mon amour, we might not leave this chapel," he said in husky warning, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes that had darkened. "The good Father has been kind enough to sanction this union. I would not wish him to walk in on a moment of scandal and give him cause to reverse his decision."

At the memory of what happened the last time they gave in to their desire in this sacred chamber, her cheeks grew hot and she nodded, for the moment content to lay her head against his shoulder and feel the strong, rapid beating of his heart against her body.

"We will be together soon, Mon Ange," he whispered against her hair. "You must gather your belongings, what you do not wish to part with, and Madame Giry will bring you to me when all is accomplished."

No sooner did he speak than footsteps sounded and Madame again appeared at the entrance. "Christine, it is time."

With a little sigh, she moved back from Erik to look up into his eyes, keeping her arms around his waist a moment longer. "I will come to you soon," she promised. "Very soon."

His gloved fingertips brushed her temple. "I will be waiting."

Christine wanted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him again until they were both breathless, but Madame and Meg both watched and waited, so she only touched her hand to the back of his glove and turned her face to kiss his palm before moving to join the others.

She smiled quietly at Meg, who pressed her lips together in a sympathetic smile of understanding and put a comforting hand to her arm. As they turned right at the corridor at the entrance, Christine looked over her shoulder at Erik.

He stood so tall and impressive, his eyes glowing with love for her, and she smiled at him, hoping her eyes conveyed the same depth of affection. Her heart felt torn to leave him. She had waited so long – _they_ _had both_ waited so long. And once more they were being forced to part, even if it was only for a little while.

At this moment, twenty minutes, as brief as it sounded on any other evening, might as well have been an eternity.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Trivia from: themarryingguy . com - "In ancient times and into the Middle Ages, to protect the bride from "ground demons" during the wedding, flowers and flower petals were strewn in her path to create a protective barrier between her feet and the evil spirits." - Not the sole reason I did this sort of thing, but it's kinda cool so thought I'd mention it. Also, I used an actual ceremony that was from that time period. :)**

**Also, (same site)- "In the 19th century, each flower had its own meaning and different flowers were sent back and forth as messages between the bride and groom before the wedding, each flower having a special meaning and association****…Later, the flowers used for such messages were adapted into the bride's bouquet ****…" ****– I decided the message of Christine's one red rose wrapped with his black ribbon was enough. ;-)**

**(I decided after 26 chapters {and the entire last story} it was time these two married- it works better this way for the plot I have intended and what I wish to happen in this story ... )**

**Would love to know your thoughts on this chapter****…**


	28. Past the Point of No Return

**A/N: Hope everyone had a great holiday! A big thank you to those who reviewed! :) Fluff and romance lovers ****– this one's for you ****…**

* * *

**Past the Point of No Return**

**Chapter XXVIII**

**.**

Once they returned to the dressing room, Madame stopped Christine from approaching the door leading to the backstage area with a hand to her arm. "Aren't you forgetting something, my dear?"

Christine looked at her in confusion, and Meg laughed. "If you go out there in a wedding gown, you're certain to have every tongue wagging and more questions than you can bear."

Christine grinned sheepishly, realizing her error in hoping to get the next twenty minutes finished and behind her as quickly as possible. Her friend was right, of course, but Christine didn't want to spend any more time than necessary to do what she must before she could return to Erik – and that included the time it would take changing into another gown.

"I suppose you'll have to take off the rings as well," Meg pondered aloud.

Christine brought her right hand to cover her left, holding her hands against her heart in a show of protection. "No." She looked down with awe at the ring that Erik had slipped on her finger during the ceremony, the design of the band itself a smooth engraving of roses and a match to the first ring. Clearly he had ordered them specially made for her. She would never take the rings off. They would have to pry them loose from her cold, dead finger.

"I'll wear gloves."

"And what will you wear in place of the dress?"

Christine looked down at her gown, uncertain. Madame came up behind her. "Let us see what we can devise." She felt the veil lifted from her hair. "You must wear something to cover the dress. A shawl perhaps …?"

Meg beamed. "You can wear this." She pulled away the black tasseled silk shawl covered in red roses that was part of her costume for the final act. Bringing it around Christine's bare shoulders, she tied it in a secure knot. The shawl hid most of her bodice and the top part of her skirt, and Christine nodded with approval, gently lying his rose down and sticking the costume red rose she'd worn as Aminta back into her hair. Madame Giry returned from beyond the dressing screen, a pair of long white ball gloves in her hand.

As she approached, she noticed the damaged mirror for the first time and raised her brow. "Perhaps you would care to tell me how that happened, Christine?"

Christine blushed as she glanced at the small spray of cracked lines in the center mirror then offered a penitent smile. "Um, I don't know my own strength?"

Meg giggled and Madame quirked a solemn brow. She shook her head in a longsuffering manner but said nothing more about the accident, for which Christine was grateful.

The final picture of her ensemble was presentable if odd, but the three women at last drew back, satisfied.

"It is expected for a diva's personal taste to be somewhat bizarre," Madame said, taking up her cane. "They will think nothing of your unusual appearance."

"Yes, think of La Carlotta and all that awful pink!" Meg added, scrunching her nose and sticking out her tongue slightly.

This time Christine giggled.

Outside the door, the corridors hummed with cast and crew and a bevy of well-wishers, reporters, and adoring fans. Upon sight of the opera's new glowing star moving away from the dressing room, a swarm of people rushed toward Christine, surrounding her as if to smother her, and she felt grateful for Madame and Meg's support, one woman on each side of her.

She answered their many questions, gracefully evading all personal ones presented, and politely smiled at the string of ardent men, young and old alike, gazing at her with unceasing adoration. Many were kind, though some did stare at her with too much familiarity, one stocky, bearded man in particular. She ignored his steady gaze trained on her and fixed her concentration on the next question from a tall, thin reporter, though all she could think of was Erik awaiting her return.

When at last there was a lull, Meg snatched two cinnamon pastries from a tray a servant carried past, one for each of them. Christine managed to slip tiny bits into her mouth before suddenly another swarm of people rushed to greet her, the managers among them. Firmin pressed a glass into her hand, lauding her success from ingénue to diva and tipped a bottle over the fluted crystal. Andre voiced his agreement, drawing in heavily on his cigar, the thick bluish smoke making her throat tickle. She coughed and took a drink of the champagne. It bubbled in her throat, making her nose tickle as well. The air that before had felt cool and comfortable now felt sultry and oppressive, with so many bodies in such a confined area, and her clothing began to cling to her skin. At last Madame Giry stepped forward.

"Gentlemen, enough. Miss Daae must bid you adieu for the evening. Please, step away," she said a bit more tersely as a young admirer boldly moved forward with his offering of a pale pink rose.

Christine accepted the token with graciousness, thanked him then extended her gratitude to all of the others before turning with Madame, who barred anyone else from coming closer. "Non, non- away!" she shooed them from Christine with her cane as Meg took hold of her arm and hurried with her to the dressing room. Inside, they locked the door and Christine turned to her in remembered shock.

"I was supposed to get my things from the dorm to take with me!"

"You'll be eaten alive if you go out there again."

Christine nodded in dismay.

"Don't look so distressed." Meg patted her arm. "I'll get them for you. Besides, you wouldn't want to run the risk of running into Chantel and her cronies and have them put a damper on your … eve …ning …" Meg's brows suddenly lifted to her fair bangs in curious shock, her gaze settling on something behind Christine.

Christine turned to look, her eyes widening when she saw a claw-footed tub steaming with water.

"How did that get in here?" she whispered. Only the noblesse owned such luxuries in their homes and in private bathing areas. She recognized the one before her as a prop that had been used in Il Muto.

"Did _he_ do it?"

"I don't know …" She thought of all his magical tricks and illusions. "Perhaps …"

Madame swept inside with her keys, shooing someone away as she worked to close the door on a persistent fan who wouldn't take no for an answer. She let out an exhalation of relief as wood at last met paneling and quickly locked the door, turning to face the girls.

"Maman, do you know where this came from?"

"It has been here all day, brought in this morning and hidden beyond the screen." With her cane, she gestured to another accordion screen now resting against the wall. "While you were busy with your interviews, Christine, I ordered three of the maids to retrieve hot water. I thought after such an exhausting day, you might wish to refresh yourself before going below to meet your bridegroom?" Madame smiled.

At her words Christine's heart jumped in delight. Her _bridegroom_. She wanted nothing more than to be reunited with Erik, without delay, but the idea of a bath held appeal. She was hot and sticky, the stench from Monsieur Andre's cigar clinging to her skin and clothing, and it would take Meg at least fifteen minutes to make it through the swarming crowd and retrieve her belongings. She nodded at Madame's kindness. "Thank you, yes. A bath would be splendid."

Meg hurried off with a grin and Madame locked the door behind her daughter then helped Christine to disrobe. As she readied her for her bath, pulling up her hair and securing it with pins, she spoke to Christine quietly in a no-nonsense manner, no longer citing poetry but revealing a little more of the mystery with regard to the marriage bed. Her blunt words made Christine's curious eyes widen. She left out the details of _how_ it would happen only told her there would be pain, which Christine already knew, and a loss of her virgin blood.

Seeing her shock, Madame patted her cheek. "It will be alright, child. It is natural and nothing to fear. All women experience this; it should only occur the first time."

Christine nodded the barest fraction, her face growing hotter by the second. She felt more than a little grateful when Madame retreated from the room to give her solitude, locking the door behind her.

Deep in thought, Christine let her wrapper fall and slid deep into the silken, rose-scented water that had dropped to a soothing temperature of warmth. Lost in recalling all Madame told her, a fraction to prepare her but a great deal to make her wonder, she drew a wet sponge slowly over her body then blinked, as if coming out of a stupor, and hastened her toilette. To immerse herself in heated water was a rare treat, her usual method of cleanliness to bathe with a sponge, basin of water and soap – all of what was available at the opera house. But she didn't wish to tarry, wishing only to return to Erik's arms.

Her _husband's_ arms.

She smiled, feeling giddy inside, then left the bath and drew her wrapper around herself as she considered what to wear. The wedding dress had an intricate row of tiny pearl buttons at the back, starting at the top and going past the waistline, impossible to fasten without help; nor did she want to risk the pristine white material getting dirty on her long trek down through the damp cellars. She studied the costumes left behind on the rack at last choosing something easy to fasten, perfect for what she wanted, and thankfully able to manage without help.

Once Madame returned with Meg behind her, Christine had just drawn her cloak over her shoulders and fastened the clasp. While Madame again locked the door, Meg hurried forward with a small, blanketed bundle tied in a knot at the top and containing all of Christine's worldly possessions.

Christine took it from her. "Thank you so much, my friend. For everything. I … I will miss you." Meg's presence would be the sole thing she would miss about the dormitory in which she had spent most of her life.

Meg's eyes grew a little sad. "Things will really change so much?"

"Not so much," Christine promised and hugged her tightly. "We'll still see each other every day," she said before pulling away and looking into her shimmering eyes. "And we'll always remain friends."

She kissed her cheek and Meg did the same to Christine's. Meg smiled, a wicked gleam coming into her eyes. "I can't wait to hear everything," she whispered so that her mother wouldn't hear.

Christine blushed, doubting strongly that such information would ever be forthcoming. "We'll talk as soon as I return, I promise."

They hugged again and Meg left, Madame locking the dressing room door behind her one last time.

"Are you ready, my dear?"

Christine only smiled and opened the mirror door.

**x**

Her heart pounded as she walked with Madame at an exasperatingly sedate pace down to the last cellar. All during their descent Madame seemed to walk at a crawl while Christine wished to run ahead in her impatience, barely curbing the desire to do so. Above, she had spent more than an hour away from him already, and the descent _usually_ took roughly that much time as well, though she sensed he had a faster way he used when he made the trek alone, remembering his swift and sudden appearance to her dressing room the night before.

At the end of the incline to the last cellar, in place of the long black gondola she noticed a smaller boat, one she had never before seen. As they drew closer, her eyes widened at the sight.

Within the small vessel lay a profusion of rose petals, covering the entirety of the boat's floor and the single seat in the middle with a soft cloud of pure white. Upon the center of the seat lay a flawless red rose wrapped in his signature black ribbon.

Madame smiled in quiet appreciation. "It seems this is where we are to part, Christine." She laid a hand against her shoulder. "I wish you well, child."

Christine dazedly smiled and nodded, thanking her former guardian with a hug, then set her few belongings in the boat with care. Not wanting to bruise the beautiful petals but eager to feel their softness against her skin after walking so long and so far, she removed her slippers and stepped onto the cool, velvet floor of roses that kissed her up to her ankles. Even through her stockings she could feel their softness. Taking up the thornless red rose, a masterpiece of perfection, she sank onto her seat of petals, feeling like the goddess Venus to whom the rose was offered in sacred tribute. The sweet, pure fragrance cosseted her in gentle perfume and eagerly she laid the rose in her lap and took up the oars while Madame untied the small boat and gave it a shove.

As she rowed, Christine gazed with amazement at her beautiful surroundings. Every candle in every candelabrum produced a quiet flame that cast a subtle sheen of gold on the calm path of green water before her, the color of the lake so light, it appeared translucent and lit from within. Her breaths unsteady with nervous anticipation, she took the familiar course she had not visited in over a week and soon neared what had become _her_ home. The thought gave her a little thrill.

As if the very cave walls watched for her presence and whispered to an unseen hand, the heavy crimson and gold curtain of dark brocade swept to the sides of the open portcullis. The sight before her took her breath away.

Whereas the entirety of the lake had been lit to welcome her, the cavern within lay completely dark and silent, lit only by a multi-branched candelabrum that sat in the center of the organ. Rather than instill her with unease, the ambience of the huge chamber room stirred something deep inside her soul, bringing a rush of warmth to heat her blood. For she knew, somewhere within, he waited.

As she rowed closer, the fragrance of roses grew stronger and her eyes widened as they adjusted to the dim lighting. Scattered across the lake lay an abundance of red rose petals through which her boat drifted, while everywhere she looked sprays of red and white roses stood in urns, laid in bunches on tables, even upon the stones. Feeling as if she had entered a rose bower, she drew in a stunned breath of wonder.

Yet for all the delicate beauty and aura of mystery surrounding her, her dear Phantom was nowhere.

The moment her foot touched shore, the dulcet strains of a violin sweetly whispered in the air and she drew in a quick breath. The notes seemed to encircle her, his gentle music trickling into the thirsty pores of her soul. She looked all around, making a slow circle, trying to place where the melodious strains were coming from.

"Erik?" she whispered. She moved toward the organ, slowing her steps in uncertainty when the violin's last notes faded away - then stopped completely in shock as his rich voice softly filled the chamber, wrapping around her as if in embrace.

"_You have come here __…_"

On recognizing the familiar aria, she took an uneven breath, her heart fluttering.

"In pursuit of your deepest urge …"

Her eyes fell shut as his voice covered her in sweet caress.

"In pursuit of that wish which till now has been silent … _silent __…_"

The last word drifted away, a mellow whisper, and she opened her eyes, wishing only to see him.

"**_I have brought you! _**_That our** passions **may** fuse and merge **__…!_"

His song roared in triumph as the candles at the organ flickered and blew out. Instantly other candles from all over the chamber flamed to life and blew out in a continuous, fluid rhythm, the effect like golden lightning rapidly shimmering all around her and upon her. Her breath, already unsteady, came faster …

"In your mind you've already succumbed to me, dropped all defenses, completely succumbed to me …"

His lyrical voice came directly from behind. Her bundle of belongings and slippers fell from her nerveless fingers.

"_Now you are here with me __…_" His sensual words fell to a coaxing whisper and shivered against her neck. "_No second thoughts __… you've decided __… decided __…_

"Past the point of no return, no backward glances …"

His voice came softer, distant, and she turned around quickly to seek him out. He wasn't there, and frustrated she realized he was using his ventriloquism. Only two candelabras were now lit and far away, one on each side of the chamber, casting the middle of the chamber, where she stood, in mysterious shadow.

"Our games of make-believe **_are at an end!_**"

Her breath caught at the fervent promise that trembled in his words, and she turned her head sharply toward the staircase leading up to the organ, where she now heard his voice. She took the first step. As she did, the candlestick that stood at the edge of the stair flamed to soft life. She blinked in surprise and took the next step. Another wick came alight, each step she took, another candle flaming to a gentle glow and lighting the path to her lover. Still, she could see him nowhere.

"Past all thought of if … or when …"

She reached the top and looked around in the darkness, confused, deciding he must be beyond the organ, near the pipes. She moved to go there.

"No use resisting …"

Her breath strangled in her throat when suddenly his warm hand grasped her arm above the elbow. Before she could turn, he pulled her back against the hard length of his body. A hot rush of intense longing made her legs quiver, but before she could collapse, his arm braced around her waist.

"_Abandon thought and let the dream descend __…_"

As he sang barely above a whisper, the fingertips of his other hand lightly moved from her temple, tracing down to her neck and her throat.

"What raging FIRE shall flood the soul …"

She whimpered as his hand swept over her cloak, stopping below her breasts.

"What rich DESIRE unlocks its door … _what sweet seduction lies before us __…_"

His other hand smoothed down her stomach and lower, moving inside the edge of her cloak to brush his cool fingertips along her bare thigh above her stocking. She gasped and his lips traced fire below her ear to the bottom of her neck.

"Past the point of no return … _the final threshold __…_" His voice came out as a seductive purr and she melted against him.

"What warm unspoken secrets will we learn …"

To her confusion she felt his hands slowly fall away from her and she grabbed hold of the side of the pipe organ to maintain her balance.

"_Beyond the point of no return __…_"

The absence of his warmth and body startled her at first, the distance of his words mystified, and she pivoted slowly.

He stood nowhere.

Christine blinked in shock at how he had so swiftly and silently disappeared.

Only a candelabrum on the far side of the bedroom was now lit, the area before her in total darkness. But her eyes had adjusted enough to see and her fervent desire to embrace him made her more determined, steadier. She moved forward to the top of the stairs, where she had last heard his voice.

Earlier tonight she had acted out this role on stage, singing this duet with her lead while thinking only of her exciting dark Angel. Now he was here with her, changing the direction of the choreography, no longer a song of make believe, but a passionate aria leading her into their new future together. And she was more than prepared to engage in her part, every fiber of her being aching for his touch.

"You have brought me …"

As she sang to him, she took the first step down. A candlestick flared to life as before.

"To that moment where words run dry …"

A second step. A second candle.

"To that moment where speech disappears into silence … _silence __…_"

Her voice grew husky with promise as she sang and took the third step down, then the fourth, the candles lighting her way as she did.

"I have come here, _understanding_ the reason why …"

She smiled softly at her change in his lyrics.

"In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining defenseless and silent …"

As she sang she unclasped the fastening of her cloak.

"_Now you are here with me __…_"

Her heart in her quiet words, she pulled the cloak partly away from her and held it clasped around her, just below her shoulders.

"No second thoughts … I've decided …"

She let the cloak fall and heard his gasp from the opposite stairwell.

"Decided …"

She nodded softly in emphasis, still not able to see him but sensing where he was.

"Past the point of no return … no going back now!"

Her voice lifted a little in triumph as she slowly moved forward.

"Our passion play has now _at last_ begun …"

She emphasized the words with a breathy sigh of pleasure.

"Past all thought of right or wrong … _one final question?_"

She took another few steps, putting her hand to the rock at her side to brace herself as she leaned forward in urgent plea.

"_How **long must **we two wait until we're one?"_

At her second change in his lyrics, she heard the shuffle of his step on the stone as if he quickly moved forward, but then nothing more as if he again held back.

"When will the blood begin to race…?"

Her entire body trembled as she moved her hands to the ties that fastened the silk covering of her ensemble.

"The sleeping bud burst into bloom!"

She untied it with a quick yank.

"When will the flames at last CONSUME US?"

She threw her head back as she let the sheer covering float to her ankles, revealing her white satin and lace costume and stockings, similar to what she'd worn the first night she had come here. She had forgone a dress.

And suddenly he was there in front of her, lean and powerful, his large hands burning against her waist, his darkened eyes behind a mask of ebony blazing down into hers with a bold passion that made her dizzy with need. She grasped his upper arms.

"Past the point of no return," they sang to one another, their chests heaving with unsteady breaths, "the final threshold…"

His burning gaze dropped to her mouth and she did the same, looking at his parted lips, longing for his kiss.

"The bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn …"

One of his hands lifted to press his palm against her face. She leaned into his touch, as his fingers buried themselves in her hair.

"_We've passed the point of no __… return __…_"

Their notes ended on a gentle lingering breath, their bodies leaning toward one another in longing but not touching. Her eyes fluttered closed as his hand smoothed down to cup the side of her neck, his touch gentle, adoring.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime …"

At the soft, sweet words she'd never before heard, her eyes opened in surprise. He took her left hand in his, slowly leading her to the last staircase. She followed without hesitation.

"Lead me, save me from my solitude …"

Her eyes regarded him with tenderness and she hoped he could see all the love for him that dwelt within her soul.

"Say you want me with you here, beside you …"

He led her up the final steps until they both stood in front of the bedchamber. So close, not close enough …

"Anywhere, you go let me go too!"

She nodded softly, moving the needed step until her body brushed his entirely, the desire to be with him overwhelming her.

"_Chri-stine,"_ Her name on his lips came out in a wisp of shaky breath_, "that's all I ask of __–_"

She could no longer bear the separation and pulled his head down to hers, kissing him with all the longing that burned hot within her blood. His arms wrapped hard around her as he returned her kiss with a fire that kindled the need for more.

"Yes, Erik," she broke away to whisper against his mouth. "Take me. I'm yours."

.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Finis …  
**

**Kidding. ****:)**

**For those who know my writing from other stories, get ready ****… next chapter will well and truly deserve a capital M rating. And if you think the conflicts are in any way over (or this story), well mon ami, to put it mildly you've got another think coming ****– in fact, the drama has barely begun, much of it has been a set-up for what's to come ****… but I do like to take little (or not so little) fluff breaks between the madness. Don't you? ;-)**

**Credits: the lyrics of "Point of No Return" belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber (by Charles Hart)- slightly tweaked where I made mention of it to fit my story.**


	29. The Final Threshold

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) They really do make my day****… For those who know my writing, know what's coming****…for those who don't, this chapter is rated strong M- think of it as MA. I write very detailed and explicit- no holds barred- so you've been warned. This chapter is long (hope that makes up for the wait!) and something I've always wanted to do in a phanphic- detail their first night together. In writing this, I kept in mind who they are to each other- in past and present- and the way I have shaped their characters throughout story. And now I take you to****… **

* * *

**The Final Threshold**

**Chapter XXIX**

**.**

Her husky words and the manner in which Christine pressed her warm, rose-scented body to him threatened to destroy Erik's fast crumbling resolve to extend each moment, to savor each sensation as he'd once sung to her when persuading her to join him in the Music of the Night.

To pen such coaxing lyrics that extolled the wonders of prolonged passion, despite that he'd never then known the experience of a kiss, proved to be one thing. To live in the reality of such a heart-thundering occasion and heed such unfeasible expressions of seduction were far more difficult to follow...

He broke away from her sweet mouth that tasted of honey and cinnamon and retreated a step, keeping his hold around her waist. Looking to where his hands rested, he noted the shimmering white satin and sparkling lace of her outfit designed to cover her womanly curves and little else, leaving her shoulders bared. A froth of ruffles followed the edging along her legs and brushed enticingly against her thighs. Laces fastened the front of the low bodice, the upper swells of her breasts constricting as if they might spill over the scalloped trim with her every rapid breath. White stockings covered her long legs from the thighs down, and he recognized the similarity in what she'd worn to his lair that long ago night when he'd first sung those implausible lyrics. Although this costume was much more provocative. Much …

The breaths quietly ripping through his chest, Erik slid his fingertips to her throat, warmly trailing them down toward her heart, stopping just above her cleavage. She gave a little shiver, and his eyes lifted to hers. Her thick lashes were lowered as she stared at his chest, her gaze dropping to his cummerbund, breeches, and boots, his costume an informal match to the Don Juan. She lifted her gaze with shy approval. A delighted smile graced her lips as in the candlelight she now saw what he had allowed.

She pressed her palms against the sides of his neck, her fingers weaving into the strands of his natural hair below the cord that held the black mask. The wig he would dispense with in her presence, her touch at his scalp a pleasure he desired. But the mask would remain … She had seen, incredibly she had accepted, not only had she accepted, she had _married_ him after having seen, a truth still incomprehensible though she stood before him as proof … Yet this night, for which he had so long dreamed and waited, he would feel entirely like a man and nothing like a monster.

With her hands entwined in his hair, she pulled him down to her lips in hunger, again pressing her body close. His own desire for her threatened once more to overwhelm and he pushed his tongue into her mouth, exploring her as his hands did – smoothing down the sides of her long waist, along the lush slope of her hips, around to the generous curve of her bottom, dragging her against his strong need …

His breathing harsh, again he pulled away, his eyes falling shut a moment – _control!_ – before taking her hand and leading her over the petal-strewn stones to the equally adorned bed, the area quietly lit by one standing candelabrum of six candles near the alcove. Her eyes widened at the sight of the changed room, but he gave her no time to take it all in as he turned her around to face him with her back to the bed.

"Christine … God, how I love you," he whispered, wanting to say much more. But strong emotion prevented him from doing anything but proclaim his adoration without words …

In the unspoken language of the heart, he slowly caressed the gentle curve of her shoulders, trailing his touch down her delicate arms to her wrists, his fingertips skimming lightly along her skin. He barely folded his hands over hers, his touch tracing to the curve of her fingertips and up along her moist palms to then brush along the insides of her wrists. She shivered, her lips parting further, her breaths coming faster as his touch played a tenderly passionate refrain upon her skin.

Pressing his hands against her waist to her hips, his caress glided downward, the tips of his fingers feathering down the back of her thighs to the tops of her stockings. She shivered again, harder this time, and his thumbs brushed the silk slightly down. A trace of timidity softened her eyes amidst the desire that glowed inside them. He bent to kiss her, brushing his tongue against her lips until she mewled against his mouth and her hands clasped his arms as if to remain upright. He broke their kiss to sit her on the edge of the bed and slowly moved to kneel before her, taking one of her legs and resting her foot against his thigh. Both his hands moved to the top of her stocking.

Christine trembled at his touch, barely there, leaving tingles of damp fire shivering over her skin where his fingers trailed. His every move like liquid poetry, he now lightly smoothed his palms downward, rolling the length of silk lower, baring her thigh as he went. He moved forward to ghost a kiss there and she closed her eyes in pleasure at the feel of his warm lips and hot breath caressing her skin. His hands rolled the stocking past her knee, and he dropped a kiss to the side of it. Past her calf, another kiss … her ankle, another, and away from her foot and toes, where his lips brushed another kiss and a little jolt went through her. He spread his palms flat on either side of her ankle and slowly moved them upward in light caress to her thigh, his heated touch encompassing all of her skin. She watched, breathless, her heart beating fast with excitement as he removed the last stocking in the same sensuous, deliberate manner, this time allowing his fingers to trace more firmly over her sensitized flesh while she clutched the coverlet at her sides.

His hands moved upward, to touch all of her quivering skin, his eyes lifting to hers. She inhaled a soft, unsteady breath at the smoky fire simmering in their depths and couldn't help but feel a degree of nervousness that the "unknown" was now upon her. But as he rose to his feet, her womanly desire for him, to touch and be with him, overpowered all girlish hesitance and she stared at his tall form from his black leather boots to the breadth of his strong shoulders.

The dark breeches he wore in place of his usual trousers fit his lean body like the black gloves fit his hands, in the same manner sculpting every toned muscle in his thighs and hugging slim hips. The ruffled folds of his shirt gaped open, revealing much of his hard chest, a sheen covering his skin and making the hair glisten. He extended his hands to her and she laid her palms in his without hesitation. He pulled her up to stand, bringing her as close as they could be without touching, then lowered his mouth to hers.

His song had seduced her, his touch had inflamed her. The fire building inside to a reckless degree, Christine lifted trembling hands to press against his solid chest, curling her fingertips in the soft tufts of hair and bringing her nails to scrape lightly over his skin. He groaned against her mouth, and she felt a unique surge of feminine power, wishing to incite that reaction from him again. Her touch widened in an arc, her nails scraping across his skin and brushing across his flat nipples. He drew a sharp intake of breath and grabbed her wrists, breaking their kiss.

They stood and stared at one another: her eyes full of innocent seduction, his glowing with barely leashed passion.

"Lie down," he rasped after a moment, his words soft and controlled, though his uneven breathing proved that a lie.

He released her and she retreated a step to obey, sinking slowly to the mattress. Then gracefully, as if in a ballet, she curled her long legs up together until they rested on the coverlet, and reclined on her back, her eyes never leaving his.

Erik swallowed hard. God, she was beautiful, the innocence of a newly born Venus lying amid rose petals of scarlet. He drew in a shaky breath, determined not to pounce on her, determined to take this with slow measure. He did not wish to make her the least bit apprehensive but possessed no experience with how to prevent that. Every time she touched him, and in a manner she never had before, hell, every time she kissed him, he wanted to rip her clothes from her supple, warm body and bring them swiftly together like some uninhibited, wild beast. She had called him a beastly lion once, and he felt the similarity tonight, the bars of restraint keeping him caged, his muscles coiled and body taut with hunger.

He shut his eyes, desperate to gather the last fleeing shreds of sanity, so as not to give in to such ardent madness. Trembling with the effort, he sat on the edge of the bed and removed his boots, feeling her watch him all the while. Gradually he unfolded his body to stretch out his length beside her.

Her hair was a glorious mass of wild ringlets and he brushed his knuckles over the curls near her temple, dropping his caress along her flushed cheek. Bringing his gossamer touch below her delicate jaw, he smoothed a path down to her silken neck and the pulse throbbing madly in her throat. His lips descended against hers gently in repeated languid caress. His tongue brushed along the underside of her lower lip then the inside, slowly sucking the sweetness of it into his mouth and nibbling on her flesh …

Christine whimpered and swiftly wrapped her arm around his back, hauling him closer so that he lost all balance and his body fell against her.

"Erik," she whispered urgently, his light, gradual touches on the verge of making her go mad with yearning, "_please_ … I … I need you to … to …" She shook her head a little in frustration, her heavy-lidded eyes imploring him to understand.

Her husky plea scattered all smoke of restraint and the fire burned a roaring trail, consuming all thought as the beast broke through the cage she'd unbarred.

"_Christine __– you are mine!_"

With a low growl, he sucked in the sweet flesh near the cord of her neck and she gasped. His hand flattened against her in firm, possessive caress, from collarbone to breast to thigh then retraced its path and grabbed the laces of her bodice. He gave a sharp tug, breaking free the tie. Another swift tug brought the first crossed lacing free from the holes then he pulled away the one below that. His mouth forged a wet path to the swells of her breasts and he drew slightly away to look upon her.

The bodice now loosened by his hand, her rose areolas peeked above the lace. His breathing quickened at the enticing sight, stoking his passion to a greater blaze, and he moved over her, planting one knee on each side of her hips. He tore the rest of the damnably long lacing from the material, ripping it through the last two holes in his impatience, finally casting the ribbon aside. Using his thumbs he peeled away the edges of the bodice and inhaled a swift, shaky breath at the sight of her.

She _was_ beauty …

Freed from all restraints, _at last_, he found that her breasts fit perfectly in his hands, as if made for him. Round and firm, their stiff peaks were petal pink, her skin the color of rich cream. Smooth. Soft. Flawless. He squeezed the pale globes, brushing his thumbs across her nipples and watched them harden even more. Feeling her tremble beneath him, he flicked his eyes upward. He held eye contact for one explosive, dizzying breath and she gasped, right before his mouth latched onto her breast in hunger.

Christine opened her eyes and mouth wide, a sharp exclamation falling from her lips as she grabbed his head to her with both hands. The feel of her bared skin in his warm hands, in his wet mouth, of him suckling her with no cloth in the way, brought such intense pleasure she thought she might float off the edge of sanity. Pressure swiftly burned in the pit of her belly. The dark fire that blazed in his eyes, when he had lifted them to her, had threatened to consume her. Now he was following through with his touch … and she wanted to be consumed.

He sucked in her nipple against his teeth then opened his mouth further, lightly abrading it before biting down gently while pulling away. Fire shot through to her core, and she groaned in need as he suckled her again. He took more of her into his mouth, his hungry tongue playing havoc with her trembling flesh at the same time his warm hand squeezed her other breast, brushing long fingers over the nipple. His every action increased her desire, making her wetter between her legs, and she squirmed beneath him, needing more, needing to touch him … needing … needing _…_

_ Dear_ _God, what did she need?_

Her hands gripped the back of his shirt, her fingers impatiently curling in the voluminous folds and pulling it free of his waistband. He stiffened a moment, his tongue and fingers stilled on her skin, but he did not stop her. He lifted his mouth from her wet peak, only to move to her other breast and begin the same sweet torment. Shivering in pleasure, she continued to pull up his shirt, bunching it with her fingers into her hands, until her palms met the solid heat of his skin. She gasped and opened her eyes wide at the cruel story his back told.

In slow disbelief her shaky hands smoothed over crisscrossed ridges of old scar tissue that went down as far as she could reach and hot tears swam to her eyes. She couldn't help the quiet little sob that softly shook her upper body and he broke his firm suction over her breast to move up to her and cup her face in his hands. "Shh," he whispered gently against her lips then kissed her in hunger. But his shift in position only brought her hands down further and she felt the raised ridges continue toward his cummerbund.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears, and he lifted his mouth from hers to whisper, "It's alright." He kissed her again. "It was a long time ago. It's not important." She wanted to argue that anything that caused him pain was important and the beast that had done this to him should be hung, but his mouth immediately covered hers again, his tongue demanding hers. He braced his arm near her head and moved his knee between her legs, nudging one aside, then lowered his body between her legs, pressing her into the mattress. His impassioned kiss stole away her anger at the injustice. The sudden contact of his heated skin on hers and the soft hairs that dusted his chest teasing her sensitive flesh electrified further thought.

Erik gasped against her mouth at the sensation of her luxurious warmth against his needy skin. Her nipples were rigid and wet from taking his pleasure and rubbed enticingly against his chest as he moved against her. How he longed to feel all of her silken flesh pressed this close!

Lowering his hand down her side, he peeled the rest of the outfit from her body, barely practicing restraint, wishing to rip it from her as his knuckles slid over the smooth skin of her waist, then hip, then thigh and did the same to the other side. He moved away, to rid her of the costume entirely, then brought his weight back to his knees, his eyes widening as he took in the vision beneath him. His mouth dropped open in awe at the sight of her flushed skin, its smooth clarity, with not a mark to mar it, the lush curves of breast, waist, and hip, her soft dark curls that twice he'd briefly caressed and would finally know all of what they covered.

She was perfection …

His eyes fell shut with the enormity of this moment, with all he thought never could occur, as it became even more real to him. "_Oh, God __… Christine __…"_

His eyes flew open, meeting hers. Her face blushed rosy, her look uncertain and shy as she stared up at him with luminous dark eyes, which grew wider as he stared. He pulled his shirt over his head, tearing it from his arms and throwing it to the ground, again lowering his body against hers, again feeling the electric shock of the contact, this time as all points of his hard torso met with every inch of her petal-soft skin.

Christine gasped as Erik covered her nakedness with the solid heat of his long body, his lips immediately going to hers, her flesh quivering under his. When he had so intently looked at her without moving, even blinking, she had feared he might be disappointed. But when his eyes again met hers she had seen the truth burning there and it made her heart race even faster.

Pressed beneath him she could barely breathe but said nothing, relishing this closeness she had so long coveted. Though she was afraid to cause him pain, she couldn't keep from touching his back. She trailed her short nails lightly along his scarred skin, surprised when he shivered with pleasure against her. Growing bolder, she pressed her fingers then palms a little harder against the solid heat of him, until soon she was kneading the hollows and ridges of his muscled flesh.

He shifted his weight, his left hand scorching the side of her breast and moving down her waist to her hip where it came to rest on her thigh as his moist kisses scattered points of fire over every inch of her he could reach without moving his body far from hers. His fingertips brushed against her damp curls, even as his lips brushed beneath her ear, and she groaned, moving her leg to give him better access.

Erik inhaled a ragged breath as he stroked her wet center, the feel of her like smooth satin covered in warm cream, silken like every other inch of her body. The sweet fragrance of her stimulated him further, and she whimpered in need as he pressed a little deeper against her, rubbing more firmly. Her hips soon twitched in rhythm against his hand, and he lifted his head to look at her face. Her thick lashes fanned over her glowing cheeks, her eyelids fluttering, her rosy lips parted wide as she panted in pleasure.

Dear God, he wanted her – _now!_ Yet he had read enough and seen enough to know he must prepare her to receive him. He feared causing her any pain, though he knew some amount was inevitable. Watching her face, he slipped his finger partly inside her, feeling the resistance of her maidenhead immediately, watching as her eyes flew open wide and met his in shock.

"Relax, my love," he whispered, "It's alright." She nodded like a new student to her Maestro, looking a little lost. His lips brushed against hers and she opened to him, her tongue finding his.

Christine tried not to tense as Erik slipped his long, slender finger deep inside her. He gave a soft groan of pleasure and she relaxed as she melted beneath his kiss. The strangeness wasn't so bad, more of a shock than pain, and as he began softly pumping his finger in and out of her, stroking her inside, she gasped at this new sensation, finding it most pleasurable. Again she moved with him as he led. The slight unease had faded and the urgent pressure low in her belly increased. He moved his body closer; against her leg she could feel the hard secret length of him beneath his breeches. He slipped a second finger inside her to join the first. She tensed, again feeling the sting, a little harsher this time, again willed herself to relax, and suddenly she understood the entire mystery.

The pain faded while the pressure magnified. Now that she was sure she knew, she wanted to experience all of what would come. Before she could somehow find her voice to speak, his strokes robbing her of lucid thought, his lips found her nipple and suckled, capturing her between his teeth and tongue. A lightning bolt of flame struck her center. Something broke inside, as had happened at the mirror door, and her breath caught sharply in her throat in a stuttering gasp as her mind went hazy and her body trembled with the sensation of release.

Erik felt her tight heat pulse strongly around his fingers, another rush of silky moisture coating them, the feel of her incredible. He needed to experience this, experience _her_ surrounding him, and could refrain no longer.

At the same time he withdrew his fingers from her body, he felt her hand slide down his side to his cummerbund. Her thumb burrowed under the material she tightly fisted and pulled down as much of as she could.

"Take them off."

The throaty order from his Angel's mouth shocked him, and he looked into her eyes. They stared at him with intense longing, their color as black as obsidian.

Vaguely he nodded, moving to his knees, keenly aware that she never once looked away from his actions as he removed first the cummerbund then his shaky hands went to the lacings of his breeches. He felt somewhat awkward with her watching him and so intently, but his desire for her was far stronger than any latent modesty and as he peeled his breeches down from his hips, she saw exactly how strong.

Her rosy face flushed deeper red, her half-shuttered eyes widened and her quickening breath hitched in soft, uneven gulps. But she never once looked away, never even seemed to blink.

Christine gaped at the magnificent sight of Erik: lean muscle, his alabaster body firm and toned, the thin trail of hair that disappeared into his waistband leading to dark curls like hers, and amid them the hardness she had so often felt now stood erect against his flat stomach, the color a blush purple and throbbing as if alive. Taking in the size of him, she understood about the pain and the rest of it and closed her eyes to gather the courage.

She felt the bed move and heard a quick rustle of clothing. When she again opened her eyes, he had moved over her, settling between her legs, with his arms braced near her shoulders. She gasped to feel his heated skin pressed to hers, pushing her into the mattress, that part of him burning hot against her curls, the skin unexpectedly silken for as hard as he was. The soft hair that covered his legs teased her sensitized skin, just as the hair that covered his chest did. At the novel feel of nothing but skin against skin, they remained perfectly still, absorbing this new sensation. They searched one another's faces, their mouths open, their breaths unsteady, their passion-glazed eyes meeting and holding – the message the same.

She grabbed the back of his neck, rapidly drawing him nearer, at the same time he swiftly moved close, grasping handfuls of her long curls – and their mouths met in raw hunger.

The desire to be closer soon controlled them, the need to become one grew paramount. Her hands moved over his shoulders and across his back, trying to pull him even closer. "Oh God, Erik…_please_," she begged, drawing her legs up until her soles rested against the mattress and her legs pressed tightly to him. She squirmed beneath him and he gasped.

He shifted position, every part of him trembling as she trembled, until the tip of his manhood penetrated her entrance. She bit the side of her tongue against the sting, as her maidenhead, still intact, resisted, but was determined not to cry out.

"Look at me, Christine."

The low, husky rumble of his voice moved all through her; she knew she couldn't refuse, but didn't want him to see the pain in her eyes, afraid he might then withdraw. She had prepared herself for this moment for weeks, and now that it had arrived, now that she knew what it felt like to be so intensely intimate with him, she would _not_ give him any opportunity to draw back.

"Look at me …" His tone came softer as he pushed in a little deeper and she worked hard to ease her rigid muscles as the pain grew. "Mon Ange …"

Her eyelids flickered open. He studied her intently and concern glistened in the shimmering depths of his darkened eyes. "Forgive me. I –I don't know how to make this easier …" his words came raspy.

"I don't care about the pain," she whispered, her hands pressing against his head. "Only promise you won't stop."

"I _cannot_ stop …" His arms severely trembled and he groaned. "There is a reason it is called … the point of no return."

"Thank God for that."

Her brave words tinged in pain drove Erik to the edge of madness. Not wanting to extend her misery in what should be for her only pleasure, he braced himself then drove in to the hilt, tearing completely through her maidenhead and marrying their flesh as one.

Unable to prevent it, Christine let out a sob at the sharp sting worse than anything before, as he stretched her so wide and filled her so deeply she felt she might come apart. Her short fingernails buried into his shoulders as she struggled desperately to relax, squeezing away the tears that had sprung to her eyes, her heart beating hard and fast and matching the tempo of his.

Tearing through her resistance had caused Erik discomfort, but not as great as hers. It quickly faded and now he discovered an emotion previously unknown to him – the knowledge of ecstasy. His mouth hung slack and his eyes rolled back into his head at the incredible sensation of being inside her. Her walls were an inferno of wet heat, tight around him and silken like cream.

She was heaven.

Oh God, at last, at last …

He remained still, absorbing this new feeling that elevated his heart and soul. The entirety of his body and senses. Moisture wet his eyes to know that despite everything that had gone so terribly wrong, all of what he had envisioned for them had come wondrously to pass. She was fully his, she belonged to him,

She was _his wife_ …

Cradling her face gently between his hands, he brushed her parted lips with his thumbs then replaced them with an even softer brush of his lips. Drawing away, unable to speak, he looked down with inexpressible love into her moist eyes. They blinked up at him in shock and wonder …

Moving his hands to cradle her head he slowly began to withdraw from her.

Christine opened her eyes wide in dismayed confusion. "No," she insisted, her hands grabbing his bottom to stop him, her mind vaguely registering that here no whip marks marred the smooth skin that was also hard like steel. With the pain at last faded, her body adjusted and she found the sensation of him actually being inside her incredible. She reveled in this sense of absolute fullness, as if he had become a part of her. One flesh. _Why would he want to leave her now?_

She gasped in relief as he yielded to her plea and again plunged deep. She wrapped her arms tightly around him to hold him to her, her hands now finding that the scars ended at the low point of his back, which was smooth. Again he began to withdraw and she whimpered, "Please," pressing down on him, sliding her hands again to his bottom, lifting hers to try to keep him with her.

"Shh, Christine," he kissed the corner of her lips. "Mon amour, trust me…"

With every beat of her heart, she did and nodded. Slowly he moved away again. She forced herself not to try and stop him, gasping a second time when he once more filled her completely in one smooth thrust. She stared up at him in curious awe. His glazed eyes never left hers.

Twice more he withdrew; twice more he plunged deep.

And as Erik filled her body, something happened inside her soul ...

Her eyelids fluttered closed at the strange, new sensation of his fullness stroking inside, stretching her, as his fingers had done but to a greater extreme. Every part of him touching every part of her. And she groaned as a stronger fire began to burn deeply within.

The rhythm that her sweet Maestro set was slow and deep, fluid, like music. She found her hips responding, matching his movements and rocking with him in graceful duet. Just as his music touched her, she now felt she could soar but also strangely that she was spiraling gradually downward. Her body knew satisfaction to be so unbelievably close to him, so wondrously connected, at the same time she hungered to get impossibly closer - _wishing to absorb him into every inch of her being!_

Her hands wove into his hair. She felt the cord slip upward. Fearing he would withdraw from her if the mask came off, with her fingertips she slid it quickly down and moved her hands to hold the back of his shoulders instead.

Erik felt her action, surprised by it but too far lost inside this novel emotion called pleasure, lost inside her soft, exquisite warmth, to have cared whether the mask came off or not. The thought shocked him but he gave little heed to that as well, concentrating only on feeding this hunger that burned so deep. To watch her take pleasure from him gave as much pleasure as taking it from her, and he desperately wished he could extend their sensual enjoyment. But this first time inside her, this first time experiencing the intimate knowledge of her warm, lush body and the fulfillment of all he had so long dreamed, finding all of it a rich bounty beyond comprehension, beyond anything he could have imagined, he knew, damn it, he knew he would not last much longer. His body demanded release. Still, he fought it …

Her emotions whirling, Christine wrapped her legs around his, drawing her nails down his back, eliciting his husky groan. Breathless with pleasure she clung to him as his tempo increased, her hands again roving his scarred back to clutch his smooth, taut bottom. He growled and drove into her harder still, burying his face in her neck. She softly moaned in need, whispering his name…

His rhythm was abruptly lost as his body jerked hard in spasm. "_God no, I __– I can't!_" he gasped harshly, and Christine held fast to him, vaguely wondering what he could not do. "_Chris-tine!_' His breath scorched her neck. His entire body tensed then slowly relaxed against her as warmth spread deep inside her belly.

She felt far from relaxed, her heart still racing, but was content to hold him so intimately close, closer than she could have ever dreamed possible – when so many times in the past week she worried that her beloved Phantom might disappear back into the shadows without warning as he had done so often and she would never see him again.

At last, she no longer had reason to fear such an occurrence ever again happening.

**x**

After a short time elapsed, Erik lifted himself on his arms to look down at her. His beautiful eyes still mirror dark, the green barely seen, swirled with myriad emotions. Amazement, relief, love, but Christine also read a tinge of sadness there … perhaps … disappointment? She drew her brows together in concern.

"Did I do something wrong?"

He winced, a flicker of shock filling his expression, and cradled her face between his hands. "No, mon amour, _you_ are perfect." He lowered his mouth to hers in a light kiss that instantly grew deep.

Christine sought his tongue in relief, desperately wanting to please him and still feeling the need so strongly. She wriggled her hips beneath his, brushing her feet slightly up the insides of his legs, running her hands down his back to his bottom, loving to touch him with every part of her, needing to be touched with every part of him ...

He broke away from her mouth, burying his forehead against her shoulder with a groan. "_Oh God, Christine __…_"

Impatiently she reached for him, pulling him back to her kiss, embracing his tongue with hers just as their bodies embraced. Her breaths came faster, her longing grew deeper, until he abruptly pulled away and, to her shock, left her body.

"Erik?" She blinked at him where he had slowly rolled to lay beside her and pushed himself to sit up against a pillow with one knee raised.

They looked at one another at length, her gaze questioning and uncertain, his eyes inscrutable and dark.

"Come here," he said thickly, extending his hand toward her.

Shaky and feeling a bit awkward, she nonetheless obeyed slipping her hand into his as she'd done so many times since that first night at the mirror door.

He helped to bring her back to rest against his solid chest, his arms wrapping around her, and she sighed in pleasurable relief. One of his hands smoothed over her damp flesh from taut nipple to quivering stomach. She softly moaned when his fingers grazed her wet curls and she brought her head back to rest against his shoulder.

"I … don't understand," she whispered.

"Man's fallible nature," he whispered wryly, his eyes intent on her as he stroked. "I am not made like you, Christine. You can become excited many times throughout. A man is spent once." And too damn fast.

"Oh…" Her word caught on a breath. "_Oh!_" She gasped her eyes going wide then fluttering closed as his finger rubbed a light circle against the tiny bud at the top near her curls. Something he made note of … he watched her face as he did it again.

"_Erik_," she gasped on a breath. "… How-how many times?"

His lips twisted in a grin, and he decided he would like to discover the answer to that mystery as well. "I don't know."

His strokes came firmer, her breaths came faster, and she drew her legs up, soles to the bed. Intently watching her body's response to his actions then her face, he dipped his finger inside, gently stroking her. She groaned, not in pain, and he was grateful that ordeal was at last over for her.

"E-E-Erik …?"

"Oui, Ma Petit Ange?" he asked silkily.

"When can you … can we … how long until we can be one again?"

He sighed. "I don't know that either." He wished he did. "This experience is new to me as well, Christine." He had read much, but nothing spoke of that.

"I hope it's soon," she breathed, her low words barely audible, so wrapped up in pleasure she barely took note of what she said. "I like this …but love you inside m-more …_Oh!_"

His eyes fell shut, overwhelmed by her wistful words as she released against his hand then melted against his body, her legs sinking to the bed. Slowly he withdrew his touch from her warmth and wrapped that arm around her too, cherishing her in his hold for a moment. She was everything to him and always had been; he would do his utmost to be everything for her.

He looked for the sheet to pull over them. It was then he noticed they had never made it beneath the coverlet. He wryly chuckled, hauling it up from the side of the bed and over them, a shower of petals sprinkling them in the process.

"I like the petals," Christine said dreamily.

"I am glad."

"And the roses. So many …"

He smiled.

"And the rings." She lifted her hand to look at them. "I love my rings. Why did you give me two?"

"The first is your birthday present, a ring of engagement. Though we only were engaged a matter of minutes, I did not want you to miss out on the experience of having one." He stroked her shoulder, enjoying this strange, new familiarity of relaxing with her warm, nude body against his and conversing, in the same manner they often had conversed between cold walls of stone in the past. "In the Middle Ages, the Italians believed the diamond was created from the flames of love; thus they used them for tokens of engagement."

She smiled. "The flames that consume us."

He kissed her tousled, damp curls, pleased that she'd caught the significance of his choice of stone.

She sighed and wriggled against him in contentment, and shocked, he felt his blood again begin to race.

Slowly, he drew his touch down the length of her arm. "The Ancient Greeks believed diamonds to be the teardrops of the gods." He kissed the side of her neck, his fingertips tracing across her collarbone, the beads of perspiration there like jewels gliding across her skin in the dim candlelight.

"Teardrops of the gods …" she purred in echo.

"And the Romans believed diamonds were the splinters of falling stars that once tipped the arrows of Eros, god of love."

"Love …" she breathed.

"Love," he whispered in her ear. He fondled her breast gently and she gave a little pleased, murmuring sigh. Beneath the coverlet, his other hand moved over her stomach and hips and curls, every part of her that his long fingers could reach while his lips moved to pay tribute to her shell-like ear.

Erik could not keep his mouth or hands from her – had never known any mortal woman could be so soft. Her skin was pure silk, every inch of her, within and without. She was the essence of softness, beauty personified, his Venus, his Persephone, his Belle…but she was far superior to any mere goddess or queen or fairy princess. She was his Christine … the other half of his soul, the completion of his heart, and the expression of his spirit.

The need to have her again not only returned it magnified. This time, he would take her with slow measure, would somehow extend such unparalleled bliss. He was determined never again to leave her wanting ...

She gasped when he brought her down gently to lie across the width of the bed and slowly moved over her, his eyes intense and glowing dark with emotion.

"Again?" she whispered hopefully.

"Again," he answered quietly.

With a soft sigh of nothing but pure pleasure, she clutched his scarred back and once more welcomed him deep inside her warm body.

Erik closed his eyes in mindless need as he moved with steady, languid strokes inside her silken core, so tight each stroke felt like a hungry embrace. Before this night he had never experienced the fullness and abundance of such a heretofore-unknown emotion called pleasure. Never had experienced anything as intensely satisfying as sharing such a deep, profound connection with this woman he adored, in the sole manner which brought them as close as they could physically become.

Music had been a release, a comfort, easing his mind and spirit. But the pleasure of making love to Christine encompassed the entirety of his being – mind, heart, soul, and body – and he was fast becoming drunk on the potion of the experience. A drunkard for her pleasure, desiring only the wine she could give.

And as Christine filled his heart, something happened inside his soul …

The soothing heat of her body beneath him, enveloping him … the incredible love he felt radiating from her and for her made him tremble with the magnitude of the night. The intensity of partaking in such overwhelming feeling, such rich, warm desire and stirring emotion moved him deeply … and it felt as if old scarred layers of bitterness, hurt, and rejection were suddenly being stripped from his calloused heart – leaving him vulnerable and shaking …

… and needing her even more.

Christine dug her short fingernails into the ridges of his powerful shoulders, beginning to feel her mind slowly spin and a fiery pressure build deep inside, more intense than before. Her need soon growing urgent, she grabbed his hips and instinctively met his every steady plunge, breathless, desperate, until at last she shattered around him, shaking from the experience.

And still he rocked inside her, never changing his steady, methodical rhythm, as if driven by some force, some powerful need that had become crucial to relinquish and indistinct to understand ...

She opened passion-heavy eyes and stared at his face.

"_Erik __…?"_

Behind the mask his eyes were squeezed tightly shut, his mouth hung slack, what she could see of his features twisted in pain. Tears liberally wet his cheeks, dripping onto her perspiring skin, and she realized _they_ had been the drops of wetness she felt earlier. She stared at him in concern, unable to understand. Had she done something wrong this time? Clearly he was aware of her, but at the same time … not …

As she watched his conflicting expressions of pleasure, pain, and need, the truth slowly dawned and she felt she understood. The act of claiming her had become more than a means of hungry gratification. It was as if in taking her body he was slowly expunging some of the anguish he carried deep inside his soul. Erik's entire life had been nothing but a vast wasteland of pain, hatred, and betrayal, and tears wetting her own eyes, Christine wrapped her quivering legs around the backs of his solid thighs, her arms embracing his scarred body tightly within the cradle of her soft one, and willingly offered herself to him as a warm balm.

He rocked inside her with slow but fierce desperation, as if trying to rid himself of the pain at the same time wanting to extend the pleasure. She moved with him, gently stroking each whip mark that her hands could reach, wishing she could do the same to each ridge and patch of uneven skin beneath his mask…

The fire began to build again. The ache of pressure twisted deep in her belly where his solid fullness stroked her, and the burning need to release soon grew extreme. Curling her toes with the tingling sensation that filled her she opened her mouth wide, squeezed her eyelids shut and threw her head back. Shakily she cried out as tremors again shook her, without and within, pulsating around him, coating him with more of her moisture.

And still he rocked inside her.

"_Erik,_" she begged in breathless, mindless urgency after another eternity of this, and she pressed her palms hard against his jaw to gain his attention.

Slowly, he opened moist eyes, the expression in them dazed, unfocused, uncertain and looked down at her as if in a trance. Then a veil seemed to lift from his beautiful, passion-darkened eyes as they sharpened on her flushed, damp face.

"_Christine_," he whispered, his voice trembling and husky. "_I love you_."

His arms cradling beneath her shoulders, he clasped her head and crushed his mouth to hers. Their bodies slick with sweat, her core dripping from their pleasure, she whimpered with relief as he increased his rhythm until he was pounding into her with a new urgency that made her breathless …

**x**

If Christine slept at all, it was rare. She must have slept for twice she woke to Erik's hunger for her, which never diminished throughout the unfolding hours as he kept her dizzy with his now unleashed passion.

Thoroughly sated after their second feast of lovemaking, she fell into exhaustion and woke to feel his mouth at her breast, tenderly suckling her. Shocked, she felt her body tingle, in sleep already aroused. Sensing she watched him, he lifted his head, his eyes glazed, and slightly shook it.

"Forgive me, Mon Ange," he whispered in solemn apology, "but I find I must have you again."

She softly gaped at him in dazed wonder, slowly coming awake, though her heart pounded at his emotional words while her body anticipated their meaning.

"Tell me to stop," he said like a desperate man who'd been told he should not slake his thirst often and felt it wrong to do so. When she did not reply he stroked his hand down her waist and hip haltingly as if he could not keep from touching her but felt he must. He dropped his cheek to her nipple, looking at her in agony. "Tell me, Christine …" He moved his head until his lips brushed the rigid peak softly. His tongue laved it as he gently bit down. "_Tell me_ …" he whispered hoarsely, his words a warm breath against her quivering skin.

Unable to speak for emotion, she groaned and held his head against her, opening up to him again, as at last he gave in to the demand and suckled her more fervently … she, needing to be filled by him as much as he needed to fill her ...

Later, Erik watched Christine sleep, his heart full. He had never slept beside anyone, barring the time he'd been ill and had been unaware of her presence, but now he was aware _only_ of her. He had often wondered how it would feel to have her lie beside him in slumber but did not know how difficult it would be to sleep!

He gazed at her beauty, her skin kissed with the dew of their passion, her body flushed from his touch. God, she was his. _Truly his_ … his dream made into reality.

He intensely craved her, could not live without her, but he did not deserve her. Because of what he was and after all he had done, after _Persia_, he deserved nothing and no one. But somehow – _why?_ – he had been given the consummate gift of her love. She was his goddess, his Aphrodite, and he worshiped at her altar. She had given all of herself to him again and then again, and he wished to find some way to deserve her presence in his life…

He wanted to touch her.

His eyes went to her face, so beautiful, so peaceful … this time he would not wake her. This time he would let his Angel sleep.

The sensual feel of her skin against his hands could prove a worthy addiction.

He trailed his touch lightly up her thigh to her hip and waist. In sleep, she gave a little shiver and he stopped a moment and waited, before allowing his fingers to continue along the trail of silk they forged. He pressed the flat of his hand gently along her side stopping beneath one breast, moving his touch slowly to cup its full silkiness and ran his thumb across her soft nipple. It fascinated him how it could so swiftly pearl into a hard bud, though even hardened the texture was soft, and he slowly swept his thumb a few times back and forth over the now rigid peak. She groaned in her sleep.

Again he stopped and waited.

He wanted to taste her.

Trapping the tight pink bud between his upper lip and tongue he gently slid his wet caress upward before closing his lower lip around her flesh and softly taking her in his mouth. His tongue laved her as he lightly suckled, his hand faintly tracing every part of her skin he could reach.

"_Erik __…"_ her voice came on a soft, longing breath.

He looked up, thinking she had awoken, but her even breathing had hitched only slightly faster, and he could see she still slept. The realization that she dreamed of him, wanting him, made him harden even more.

God, how he wanted every bit of her …

She fully woke at the moment he quietly slid inside her core drenched from their night of passion. They both inhaled an intense, shaky breath.

She stared up at him in startled shock. He looked down at her with pure need.

He unsteadily apologized for again waking her in such a manner.

She didn't have the breath to tell him she liked it.

"Can you bear more, Ma Bel Ange?"

At his soft, lyrical, almost boyish whisper, she wrapped her arms and legs tightly around him, her heart breaking with love for him.

The pesky tenderness that occurred at some point throughout their extensive periods of joining did not hinder her pleasure to be so closely connected with her enthralling Phantom, Angel, and husband. At last, to be one with him. And throughout their first night of discovery of a litany of unspoken secrets together, Christine fully learned what it meant to go far past the point of no return, as he had once promised to take her – his passionate lyrics prose and poetry, yes – but oh so real beyond her wildest imaginings …

**.**

* * *

**xXx**

**A/N: No, this is not the end. Much more of this story to come. :) The line "splinters of falling stars that once tipped the arrows of Eros, god of love."- is not mine - it comes from a wedding site. I tried redoing it but it was just so beautifully put so I decided to take it and since I used it, the credit goes to: themarryingguy dot com / TraditionsA . html (for it to show I have to write it out like this).**

**If you're still with me, would love to know what you guys thought about the chapter...**


	30. No Dreams, But Love

**A/N: Thank you for the great comments and reviews! ... lol- on the computer bursting into flames and the sex instruction manual. ;-) Am glad you guys enjoyed their first night together. :) (I sure enjoyed writing it. lol) And now, after all that heat and steam, how about starting with a wee bit o' humor to cool things off****…(just a bit.) ;-) **

* * *

**No dreams but love**

**Chapter XXX**

**.**

Christine woke, still sleepy, her body thoroughly sated, lethargic, and warm. She would be entirely comfortable as well, if not for the throbbing tenderness between her thighs. She didn't need any time for her mind to adjust to know where she was; this was the place she had always wanted to be. She lay curled into Erik, her back against his chest, their legs curled against one another. Fitting so closely, so warmly, she could stay in this position forever and go back to sleep, with his arm holding her possessively to him …

Except that she could not.

Drat.

She considered ignoring the need then realized she had no choice. With a little sigh, she carefully moved from beneath his arm, so as not to rouse him. He had after all slumbered no more than an hour if her current state of sleepiness was anything to go by. She managed quietly to slide to the edge of the bed and looked back to be sure he hadn't stirred, then felt her face heat in embarrassment to see the darkness that stained the coverlet. Quickly she took the closest pillow and covered the telling spot that heralded with glaring clarity her complete advent into womanhood. At least Madame had told her what to expect with that!

She couldn't take the coverlet with her, since he was entwined in half of it, and she had no idea where their wrappers were. Well, his. Hers was on the floor of the lake room in her bundle of belongings where she'd dropped it. Swiftly she stood, wishing only to hurry so she could return.

She gasped and fell back down to the bed. The feel and scent of his warm seed rushing down the inside of her thigh had shocked her wide-awake just as much as the pain that stabbed high between both legs.

"Christine?"

At the husky rumble of his sleepy voice she yelped and grabbed the coverlet to hide her nudity. This dislodged the pillow, now leaving the Red Sea between them with nothing to block the way any longer. Perhaps no sea, only a spot, but it may as well have been the widest ocean for the embarrassment it caused. She blinked, thoroughly flustered. Worse, her current need increased.

Perhaps God would be merciful and Erik was only talking in his sleep.

She braved a glance his way to find his completely bewildered eyes fastened on her.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Um-hm, fine."

He didn't look convinced.

This was ridiculous. She was being utterly foolish. She had spent almost one solid decade talking to this man as her Angel, at times confiding in him her deepest secrets. She had spent half that time as his student, learning all he taught her. She had spent the past two months learning more about him and who he was, unafraid to venture into their growing relationship to the point of being brazen. And she had spent one profound night in his arms, lying with him naked, deeply connected, with him now knowing and possessing every inch of her skin.

Surely she could tell him that she needed to go to the privy chamber but wasn't sure she could get there?

They had been through this once before, for a different reason, yes. But since _he_ was the reason for her current state of distress, it shouldn't be so difficult to say.

She opened her mouth, closed it, licked her lips, tried again.

Except that it was.

The entire time he stared at her in confusion, probably wondering if all women behaved like they were candidates to Bedlam in the morning.

She cleared her throat. "It seems I, um, think I need – no, that is, I know…" She blew out a breath, determined. "I need you to carry me to the privy, please, Erik."

If she had said she was on fire, he couldn't have jumped out of bed faster.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt?" He apparently harbored no similar modesty at being fully naked as he hurried around the bed to her side.

Despite that she had just spent much of the past ten hours or more in intimate embrace with this man, her face flamed hot as she worked desperately not to look at him. In the blazing heat of passion and its hazy afterglow, it seemed natural, but in the sharp clarity of mind with its fixed attention to detail, it seemed … her eyes made a sidelong glance of his well-shaped legs, traveling up his solid thighs. She gulped down a quick breath, before her wandering eyes could lift higher, and tore her gaze away.

"I'm fine," she squeaked. "I only need a little help."

She wished he would use his great genius to figure it out so nothing more need be said and felt grateful when she felt his strong arms slide under her and lift her … except that presented another problem.

"Christine, let go of the coverlet."

His voice came calm but firm, as if dealing with a recalcitrant child. She supposed she was behaving like one, but to see his lean, powerful body naked in the cold clarity of day – night? – while being somewhat uncomfortable to her apparent lingering girlish sensitivity was _nothing _compared to the awkwardness of having him see her completely nude and while being held in his arms. All of her costumes, scanty or not, at least covered _all_ the private areas.

Yet if she didn't let go of the coverlet soon, she would have something of far greater embarrassment to worry about.

Closing her eyes she released her hold. She heard the rapid inhalation of his breath, then no more. The air grew cooler as she felt him quickly walk with her to her new sanctuary. He set her down gently. She felt his lips brush her forehead then heard him walk away.

She blinked her eyes open and hurried inside … afterward she wondered how long she could remain in this chamber room until Erik began to worry. She didn't want that, of course, but needed every minute to somehow regain her confidence. And – merciful heavens! – how was she supposed to walk back into the bedchamber without a stitch of clothing on? Assuming she could walk … _of course_ she could walk – she was a ballet dancer for pity's sake, or used to be! Except this burn was in an area never used in the dance …

The minutes sped past as she tried to think of what to do.

"Christine?"

"Yes – I'm fine! I'm ready to come back."

Except that she wasn't. Yet she still didn't think she could manage on her own without drawing unwanted attention to her … problem. Not with his sharp eyes. And the air was chillier here than in the bedchamber. For the first time she realized the change.

She was suddenly exceedingly grateful for her long mass of unruly wild curls, which served to cover her breasts, and she hung her arms down in front of her, clasping her hands while trying to hide the rest. Erik returned, his black velvet robe indolently covering his tall, lean form. She was so intent on peering up at him through lowered lashes, noting the soft curls that played about his chest revealed midway to his waist and thinking how they had felt against her skin, that she didn't notice what he held over his arm until she felt the plush of velvet slip around her shoulders and encase her body in warmth.

She blinked at the beautiful robe of silvery dove-gray, a perfect fit and match to his in design, and felt her heart melt. "Thank you, Erik," she said softly, at last looking up into his clear gray-green eyes.

He smiled but she saw the concern there before he gently picked her back up and carried her to the bed. To her surprise and greater relief, she saw that the sheets had been changed, the bed now covered in lustrous crimson satin edged in black and gold trim, as opulent as everything else in the lair.

He set her down on her side of the bed. _Her _side. The thought unfurled a curl of warmth, soothing her much-battered dignity.

"Are you certain you're alright?" he asked again. "Is there anything I can get you?"

"Perhaps something to eat?" she suggested hopefully. "I'm famished."

A wry grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Of course. I will see to it at once."

He moved to go.

"Erik?"

He turned.

"Good morning. That is …" She smiled, a little flustered, and drew her knees up hugging them to her chest. "I assume it's morning?"

He slowly nodded as he watched her. Something flashed and glittered in his darkening eyes, something she recognized from the past hours of being with him, something that made her forget to breathe…

"There is a clock in the main room if you ever wish to know the time. It is almost ten o'clock now."

She let out the breath she held and blinked in surprise. "So late? I suppose I should go above soon, in order to prepare for tonight's performance." The thought gave her no pleasure. She wanted to stay with him.

"You will not be singing tonight."

She blinked up at him in surprise. "No?"

"Not tonight, not tomorrow night, and not any night for the remainder of this week."

Her jaw dropped. "Why not?" her breath came out in a husky whisper. His rich, seductive words and intent smoky eyes alone brought the flush of need back to her skin.

"Because now that I have you here with me, at last, I have no intention of so quickly letting you go. They can wait. You are mine."

With that Erik left the bedchamber, leaving Christine to gape after him, her eyes falling shut and her body shivering in the warm promise of his words.

X

She _was_ his. Inconceivably and unequivocally – his.

But did she now regret that?

With a frown, Erik gathered what food he needed and grabbed a knife, viciously slicing into a loaf of bread.

He had hurt her. She tried to hide it from him, but it was clear, and the moment the coverlet had fallen away exposing her voluptuous beauty to his widening gaze – along with his instantaneous desire to throw her back on the bed and ravish her senseless had been his horror to see the light bruising on her hips in the shape of his fingers and a few marks left by his mouth on other delectable areas of her skin.

He was a lustful beast.

He had never intended to hurt her, of course, had not known that he could, though even in his passion-induced haze he should have realized … four times taking her virgin flesh, what else could she be but tender? God, she had not even been able to walk! He couldn't be blamed for his lack of extensive knowledge with regard to detailed matters involving the corporeal; that isn't what made him a licentious beast. Nor could he be held accountable for the number of times he yielded to his frequent desire to penetrate her heavenly core, since she never once had shown hesitance or hinted that she prefer he withdraw – her keen response encouraging the complete opposite behavior.

He was a lustful beast because despite what he'd put her through all he could think about was doing it again.

The knife slipped and sliced into his skin.

"Damn," he muttered at his rare clumsiness, though he welcomed the sting as just punishment for his mind and body's utter disregard of his Angel. He brought up the injured digit to suck the blood from his skin. The sweetness of her intimate fragrance lingered on his fingers, and instantly he hardened.

"Bloody hell." He pulled his hand away and threw the knife down. He had to concentrate on something else. Fast.

With no coffee in his larder, he made tea then walked to the part of the lake that was deepest, thus coldest, and pulled a lever, bringing up the container he'd fashioned from a strongbox. Water poured down from the wooden chest in rivulets as the mechanism brought the box steadily upward. Using a key to unlock the box released the watertight seals he had created to help keep the food within dry. The thin sides of metal he'd overlaid within the wooden exterior also helped both to protect the food from moisture and keep it colder. Realizing Christine had not eaten a full meal since before her debut performance, another grave oversight on his part not to feed her before lunging on top of her, he selected cooked ham, a hunk of cheese, and a slab of butter then relocked the box and sent it back to its dark, watery existence.

As he sliced the apples she favored, he thought about the opening of Don Juan Triumphant. Nothing untoward had occurred, but that awareness failed to give him the relief it should. The future shadows at the end of his visit in his personal hell had been distorted – everything chaotic, nothing falling into place and corresponding to the time period of what later happened in this present existence. The abysmal moment on the rooftop between her and that boy had not occurred during the masquerade ball in the shadow world, but during the opening of Il Muto. Still, it _had_ happened in a twisted manner, the results the same. Until this opera was concluded he would remain wary and not let down his guard. And he would keep a close eye on his Angel at all times.

At least the boy had not come sniffing around her skirts after the show, as he'd done on her operatic debut, though on his way to the mirror entrance Erik had seen another portent to a problem he never strongly considered, in the line of crazed admirers waiting outside her dressing room door. All that had been imperative these past four and a half years was to make their dream for her to star in an opera transpire. But with her exceptional beauty and a voice to match he grimly knew the bevy of addle-minded buffoons salivating at her feet was only the beginning of his pathos to come. They were a necessary evil to a diva's career, perhaps. But if one of them nosed too close, the offender would earnestly live to regret it. Erik had made Christine a promise not to engage in his tricks, yes, but when it came to her safety he considered the matter far from an amusement.

The _petit dejeuner_ at last complete he carried the platter they would share. Entering the bedchamber he stopped abruptly, his heart turning over at the sight she made. Setting the platter quietly on the table that once held his monkey box, he straightened to stare at her.

The velvet robe he'd had made for her lay carefully draped over a nearby trunk, his Angel nestled beneath the satin sheet and fast asleep. Her bare shoulder peeked out from the edge as she lay on her side, facing him. Her messy curls were in further disarray, her long, thick lashes fanned over flushed cheeks, her rosy lips slightly parted. Even the tiny string of drool leading to her pillow he found adorable and doubted there was anything about Christine he would consider unpleasant. Except, of course, for her frustrating tenacity to stand up to him and confront his decisions ad infinitum. But in his current frame of mind, to have her in his home at last, not as a guest but to share it with him, as _his wife_ – in light of all that, even her continual audacities to challenge his decisions seemed trivial.

He wanted nothing more than to strip off his robe and lay down beside her to hold her close. But he wasn't foolish enough to think it would end there, the need to have her again burning stronger the more time he spent in her presence, staring at her like a man obsessed. Perhaps he was obsessed. But was that not natural for a newly wedded groom to feel for his young bride?

His lips lifting slightly at the thought he covered her with a thick coverlet, a match to the bedding, and retreated to his pipe organ to lose himself in a less rewarding but thoroughly engrossing diversion.

**x**

In her dreams, Christine heard his music.

Her exhaustion was too great to allow her mind to pull her from the cloying veils of sleep, so she relaxed, letting his enriching symphony take her to places he had coaxed her and taught her to know. In her dreams, the beguiling notes washed over her senses, lavishing her in warmth, setting her aglow with stirrings of latent passion.

When she fully woke, all was quiet. She stretched deliciously in her cocoon of warm satin then slowly opened her eyes. She blinked, startled to see Erik sitting on a chair a short distance away. If she slipped to the edge of the bed and reached out, she could touch him. A tender glow lit his eyes that had deepened to a rich, smoky green. The color they always turned before darkening to near black, and only one thing from her experience made them do that …

Her heart skipped a beat.

"Erik," she whispered, then cleared her throat. "What are you doing sitting over there?" She noticed he wore his robe, and she drew her brows together, also noting he sat on his hands, pressed against the chair and beneath his thighs, a curious pose she'd never seen him use before.

"Watching you."

"Watching me?"

"You are beautiful when you sleep." The silken timbre of his voice made her shiver as much as his words did. "You are beautiful when you are awake."

"But why are you sitting over there?" she insisted. "Why aren't you here, beside me?"

Bold words, but after last night's vocabulary she remembered using, they sounded mild in comparison. Her cheeks flushed hot when she remembered some of the wildly wanton things she had said and done in the heat of their passion, but she pushed that aside in her confusion to understand.

"I did not wish to disturb you," he explained, still not moving from his chair.

"I'm awake now."

"So I see."

When he still made no move to rise, she pouted. Surely, after all that had happened between them last night, many times over, he did not think to actually create any sort of distance between them _now_? And yet, that appeared to be _exactly_ what he intended! Her eyes narrowed in frustrated determination.

Not if she could help it …

Christine pressed the satin to the middle of her breasts to keep the coverlet in place and sat up slowly with a demure smile. "Do I not even get a good morning kiss, sweet husband?" The new title for him tasted wonderful on her lips.

His eyes flared, his expression an odd mix of hunger and captivity. She wondered what possibly could be going through his complex mind. She watched his face, the black mask still hiding most of his expression, as he oddly appeared to struggle with the idea of rising and moving toward her.

"Please, Mon Ange …" she shamelessly pleaded. Pride could exit stage left if it meant she would have him close again.

At last, he rose from his chair. Even awkward and hesitant, his movements were somehow graceful as he approached their bed. She looked up at him, waiting, until at last he sank down beside her. The pulse in his throat beat fast, testament that he wasn't unaffected or so suddenly indifferent to her. After last night, she would find that difficult to believe or accept; he had been incapable of keeping his hands from her body. Not that she had minded or wanted him to. And his mouth. And, oh my, his tongue …

Her breath gave a little hitch as she leaned forward for his kiss.

The moment his lips pressed lightly against hers another shiver trembled through her. Before he could move away, she wrapped one arm around his neck to keep him there, brushing her tongue lightly against his lips. Her morning histrionics of modesty forgotten all she wanted was to be near him, to again feel all of his skin against all of hers.

He stiffened as if he might pull back. She tightened her hold around him and broke slightly away to murmur, "I – I have something I'd like to discuss with you." She sought for anything that would keep him near.

"Yes?" His soft word was a warm breath against her mouth that made her shiver again. "Are you cold?" he asked.

She wasn't. In fact, the room was warmer than she remembered it on previous visits but she didn't tell him that, allowing him to believe the atmosphere the cause of her trembling.

"Will you lie beside me?" she whispered. She knew he couldn't offer the excuse of being occupied with his music or any other matter, since he had been sitting there for an indeterminate length of time watching her. And they had nowhere to go. The thought delighted her. "Please, Mon Ange?"

At last he moved to his side of the bed and lowered himself to it, though he didn't remove his velvet wrapper and she wondered about that. She had never known him to possess a scrap of modesty since they'd been together. She moved closer to him, wrapping her arm around his chest, her fingers slipping beneath his lapel and finding his warm, bare skin.

"Mmm …That's better," she murmured, content for now.

"What did you wish to discuss?" His voice sounded strained.

It took her a moment to remember her excuse to keep him there, though _she_ _was_ curious about several things. "What you said earlier, about my absence from the opera this week, will that not cause problems? Especially since this will be the second time I have disappeared after an opening."

"Madame Giry has taken care of that at my instruction. Your understudy will go on in your place."

She nodded faintly. "Still, it does make me wonder … after disappearing without word a second time, will they even want me back? Josette has a beautiful voice..."

He laughed as if not believing she had asked such a question, and she felt his muscles begin to relax. "Josette sings like a crow compared to the crystalline purity of tone you possess. The managers heard your sublime performance and witnessed the enthusiastic audience reaction. They will beg on bended knee for you to grace their unworthy stage upon your return. And once you again open your mouth to sing you will capture the hearts of all who hear you, as if it were the first occasion you performed."

Christine smiled at his glorified praise, doubting the managers' reactions, but he seemed confident and knew more about the theater than she did. "Must we keep our marriage a secret, Mon Ange?"

He looked toward the foot of the bed and gave a slow, distant nod as if debating the issue in his mind. "I have given the matter a great deal of thought. The managers know we were engaged. I told them during our last … meeting." His lips turned up in a grim smile and she wondered what else had taken place. "I will inform them of current events. They should know, so that they further understand the consequences with regard to issues of which we spoke. As for the rest of the worthless rabble in this theater ..."

"Yes?"

"I do not wish you to say anything that could bring you further persecution. For them to know that … you are my wife," he paused and his voice went very soft, as if he still had trouble believing it, "could cause further trouble for you. On the other hand, it could be a source of needed protection. It is impossible to know how public opinion will fall."

"Needed protection – you mean because of Joseph Buquet and his friend?"

"Yes, in part. It is impossible to know how the cast and crew will react to such news."

"I'm not worried about what the ballet rats will say or do if that is what has you concerned."

A wry grin twisted his lips. "I have seen how well you defended yourself against the graceless toad Chantel. Quite a commendable performance, mon amour."

She looked up in surprise. "You were there?"

He nodded, his eyes capturing hers. "But you already knew that, did you not?"

She blushed. "I sensed it. I always feel when you're near, Mon Ange. It gives me confidence and a feeling of security. But I hope you're wrong about danger existing and a true need for a safeguard."

"I do as well, but doubt it. Something is amiss. Not just in the opera house, but within the city …."

Christine shivered as his words trailed off, not liking where their conversation had wandered. She didn't want to think of potential dangers or cruel ballet rats or lecherous voyeurs while in this warm, secure haven she had created with her exciting teacher of so many things who was now also her husband. Intent to change the subject to a lighter one, her mind switched to a riddle she'd been curious about.

"Now you must tell me, as you said you would once before …" her fingertips began stroking his chest, making lazy swirls in the tufts of his hair almost of their own will. Against her arm, she felt his heart pick up rhythm and his muscles contract. Perhaps he wasn't the only one unable to refrain from touching, though this morning – afternoon? – his hands were oddly absent from her. "… Why is your …" she caught herself and almost giggled. "… _Our _bed both a shell and a bird? No such bird exists, does it?"

He looked at her intently, clearly curious about her abrupt change in topic. "Perhaps in the world of Jules Verne it does," he stated absently.

"Jules who?"

"A French writer. In his early years he composed librettos for operettas and later moved from music into a scientific manner of writing fiction – somewhat eccentric in his viewpoints, but as I am also unconventional, I find his stories to have unique appeal. I have two of his recent volumes in my library – _Voyage au centre de la terre _and _Vingt mille lieues sous les mers. _You would enjoy them."

At any other time, Christine certainly would have been interested to know more about Monsieur Verne and his stories of journeying to the center of the earth or thousands of leagues beneath the sea, but this riddle had puzzled her for weeks and she wouldn't let him waylay her so easily. "That still doesn't answer my question," she insisted. "What bird in existence has a shell?"

"None that I know of."

"Then why did you create this bed of a bird to have one? You did create it, didn't you?" She had seen his talent with sculpting statuary, one of so many skills he possessed in crafting art.

He faintly grinned at her eagerness to know. "What bird do you see, Christine?"

She tried to remember then shook her head in defeat and sat up to look, clutching the satin bedding to her breast while moving forward to crawl to the foot of the bed – any weak attempt at modesty a pathetic failure when she abruptly realized that her position gave him an uninterrupted view of her backside. She flushed hot all over but now determined, she didn't break from her pursuit and craned to look at the golden bird's head, taking note of its piercing eyes and curved, sharp beak. A single red rose she had never before seen rested near the bird's neck in a small holder.

Settling back on her legs, she twisted around to crawl toward him, her movement tangling the bedding beneath her knee and making it almost impossible to keep the satin from pulling down further. She managed to keep the coverlet partially held over her breasts, not sure why she bothered since one side of her was now completely exposed from the waist down to one leg. She pretended not to notice.

"An eagle?" She licked her lower lip and pulled at it with her teeth, noting his fixed attention on her, his eyes as piercing as the bird's.

They had darkened to green fire, the expression in them scorching, his breaths coming unsteady through his parted lips, matching the rapid rise and fall of his chest. His arms lay at his sides against the bedding that he now clutched in tight fistfuls.

"Erik …?"

"Not an eagle," he rasped quietly. "A phoenix."

She smiled in delight. "A _phoenix!_ Of course. Like the poem."

"Yes."

She crawled closer to him and settled back down on the spongy mattress, bringing her hand up to rest over his swiftly beating heart. "And the silver shell?" she whispered, thinking of the phoenix's wings that wrapped protectively around it.

"Venus."

"Venus …?" she repeated puzzled. "The goddess of love and beauty?"

"Yes."

Her brow cleared as she remembered his many stories of the gods and goddesses. "Rising out of the sea, born from an oyster shell …"

He nodded once, and she saw him swallow hard.

"Her Roman name is Venus," she looked at the scalloped half shell of the bed frame and curiously recited what she remembered, "her Greek name, Aphrodite. She created the rose and they are given to her in tribute. It was through her tears and blood the rose became red …" she struggled to remember what else he'd told her. "The rose represents silence and secrecy … and matters first spoken under the rose, _sub rosa_, were the secrets of Venus's sexual mysteries …"

She gasped. _Unspoken secrets!_ Her gaze flew to the rose in its holder above the mattress then back to him. _What unspoken secrets will we learn beyond the point of no return_ … his lyrics wove a sensual melody inside her mind …

While his eyes burned into hers.

"And the phoenix," she breathed in sudden comprehension, her eyes widening as it all became clear to her, "was also immortal, a male bird born from the first red rose of Venus. His song then took flight and he blessed the people with his music …"

He didn't answer but she needed no affirmation to the parallel he had drawn between them, and she felt both flustered and honored to know he had crafted the bed as a tribute to her and the bond of his love, never to die, which had become their love eternal. Even before she realized that he loved her he had fashioned this bed to reflect that.

She moved closer to him in awe. "When I recited that part of Andersen's poem to you on the night of the Bal Masque, I thought you had never heard it before."

"I know."

"Then why did you let me think tha – ?"

His hands suddenly came free of the sheet and he grabbed her nape, swiftly pulling her into his kiss. His other arm circled her back and their tongues met, the hunger instantaneous, the heat generating between them into a swift blaze that threatened to consume her then and there. She released the bedding to weave her fingers through his hair, her nails lightly scraping his scalp. She felt the cord slip upward but gave no heed as she melted into his kiss and her body melted against his ...

As quickly as he began it, he broke away, gently tugging on her curls to lift her head. "You should get dressed," he said in a low, dark tone barely recognizable.

She blinked in confusion. That was the _last thing_ she felt she should be doing at the moment.

She easily moved her head from his faint grasp and kissed his neck, sliding her hand across his chest and down the thin line of hair toward his stomach where the belted sash suddenly stopped her. "I don't think I want to."

"Chri-stine," he choked out her name.

"I don't think you want me to, either."

"I have no wish to hurt you again."

So, _that's_ what his peculiar behavior was about! She cursed her inability to keep her earlier little problem one of those many unspoken secrets. "You won't." She couldn't be sure of that, but in retrospect any momentary pain was worth it to experience another intimate episode like the four they had shared. She brushed away his hair from his misshapen ear and kissed the uneven rim. He stiffened at her touch but she ignored his tense reaction.

"I feel much better after sleeping, Mon Ange. Truly I do …" It was no exaggeration. And she could think of only one thing that would make her feel more improved.

She moved her faint trail of kisses to his firm jaw, slightly rough from the light morning shadow of a beard, and pressed her lips to what little was revealed of his skin below the black silk. The mask proved to be a nuisance. She had told him the night before last that it didn't matter if he wore it or not, and in her delight of finally becoming one with him had given the disguise little thought, but at this moment it mattered to her intensely. It covered too much of his face that she wanted to touch and know. She wanted to know all of him.

After the complete closeness they had shared, their new intimacy made her feel bolder than ever. Not thinking twice, not thinking at all, she wove her hand through his soft, dark golden-brown locks until her fingertips reached the slipping cord. With a quick flick of her hand, she pushed it up, her other hand instantly going to his face to whip off his mask and throw the encumbrance aside.

Before he could rant at her, push her away, or withdraw completely, she cradled his cheeks between her palms and gently planted her lips on an uneven patch of reddened skin beneath his eye.

He hissed in a harsh breath and tensed, suddenly as hard and unyielding as a solid block of stone beneath her.

* * *

**A/N: Uh-oh****…. **

**0-:-)**


	31. Let Me Be Your Freedom

**A/N: Thank you for such awesome reviews! :) I LOVE hearing from you guys. Thaovyphantran ****– Uh-oh means "whoops!" lol ;-) - APhan- I did change dates from what they were in movie to fit my Christmas story. But I went back to check for sure since I want to rectify any mistakes made. Since I couldn't answer you privately- here's how I have it mapped out in my notes:**

**24th- the night of the spirits (most of story)**

**25th- meeting w/ Mme. Giry and his silent watch of Christine one last time in farewell at mirror**

**26th- Il Muto begins (I took some artistic license here- I have no idea if an opera of the 19th century would open then, but for what I wanted to happen, it did.)**

**27th- meeting w/ managers - later Christine comes to him. Last 2 chapters of APCC - and beginning of Symphony he is taking her back above, same night. That makes 3 days before the New Year's ball - when she visited him for lessons. Chapters 2 & 3 ****– are first day. Chapter 4- shows other two days ****–and end of that chapter she talks about the ball ****–"tomorrow night" so one week that elapsed from the time he returned from the spirit world, in APCC, resumed their lessons in Symphony, until the ball. :) If you think any of that needs clarified in APCC story, please let me know where.**

**I chart out my chapters, so I don't mess up on days/months, though I did take artistic license on the new opera****—and also will take some with a major event coming up. I can't find much in research specifically for what I need, so as I always do, I'll make my own. (Hey, ALW dispensed with a war entirely, so I'm cutting myself a little slack here too. lol) More on that when we get there. ;-) For now let us return to the newly wedded couple****… (this chapter deserves an M rating****…)**

* * *

**Let me be your freedom**

**Chapter XXXI**

**.**

She had done it. She had well and truly done it.

Erik stared past the cluster of curls at the crown of her head toward the raised canopy of black silk in stunned disbelief.

She had unmasked him once more, just as he had been certain she would do one day. Not in front of a crowd, Providence be thanked for that averted humiliation. But again, when he had been completely vulnerable and at her mercy, her soft hand had ripped away what shielded his disgrace, revealing the crux of his shame to her ever-curious eyes …

She had seen once and by his hand in the chapel. But in their bed he wanted only to feel like a _man_ with a woman he adored. Not a monster playing the role of a normal being and unworthy of such a beautiful, goddess-like creature. In the heat of their passion, at one point he had thought he wouldn't mind if the mask slipped of its own accord – but in this manner, with her unexpectedly whisking it away once again, he minded very much.

"Forgive me," she whispered near his ear, her lips brushing his temple. "Please, forgive me, dear Erik, Mon Ange, but I could no longer bear that awful thing in the way …"

Awful? She thought _his mask_ was awful? Surely she must mean his face. Surely now that she had removed the mask she could see which was the most awful of the two. But apparently she could not, for her lips continued to travel over his hideous twisted visage and he could do nothing but lay there, still as if entombed in a coffin, numb and in shock, his heart threatening to pound out of his chest. She pressed kisses to the bulbous growth that made up that part of his forehead and his vision blurred. Frantically he blinked back the tears.

"_Why, Christine?_" he found his voice at last and snapped out the question.

She pulled back in confusion to look into his stormy eyes. "Why…? I told you why …" She hesitated, tentative at seeing his rising fury, then again leaned forward to kiss the sparse brow above his glaring eye.

"_Why are you_ _doing this?_" He grabbed her upper arms and pushed her away, his grip hard, his words angry though he didn't intend them to sound so harsh. But in his desperation to understand he relied on his usual defense of caustic bitterness. "I don't need your pity. And I sure as hell don't want your martyrdom!"

"Pity?" Her eyes shimmered in hurt anger. "_Martyrdom_?"

To his shock she slapped her hand hard against his chest as tears filled her own eyes. "You truly cannot see, can you? You are so blinded by endless years of self-pity and bitterness that you cannot see the truth when it sits naked in front of you! Look at me, Erik! I married you! I'm in our bed with you!_ I_ _love you beyond reason and want to love all of you! That includes every inch of your face! _It's tragic what happened to you – _yes!_ I ache for all that you went through – of course. But stop assuming that my love is based on something so selfish and shallow as _an act of_ _mercy _in doing some altruistic, noble, saintly good deed – I am far removed from any saint and I am so _bloody sick_ of you mistaking my actions toward you as anything less than what they truly are –"

Suddenly Christine found herself flipped onto her back with Erik above her. She blinked in shock at the unexpectedness of his act, he moved as swiftly as a jungle cat.

"Stop," he grated in a whisper, holding her face between his large hands, his thumbs pressed to her lips to silence them. "Stop …"

Christine tried. She was shocked by some of the things she'd said, however true they were, and didn't wish to behave like a shrew – he'd been through so much grief in his life – _God, why was she treating him like this now?_ Why was she yelling at him, even overstating the issue like some offended prima donna, when she wished only to express her undying love for him? But the pain of his suspicions cut deep and she couldn't prevent the hot tears that leaked from the corners of her eyes.

"Why can't you ever just accept and believe in my love?" she whispered, hating how her voice trembled. "What must I do to prove it's genuine? Tell me, Erik, _what must I do?"_

He closed his eyes tightly as if he didn't know the answer and couldn't bear to look at her.

"I loved you long before I saw you. I fell in love with the voice of my Unseen Genius, my Maestro Angel who would sing me to sleep and calm my fears and tell me such wonderful stories, teaching me of other lands. Teaching me of the arts. Teaching me to sing. Teaching me so many things. Your beautiful voice soothed me when I was upset and reprimanded me when I misbehaved. Your disapproval hurt then as it hurts now, because I so wanted to please you! I only _ever_ want to please you!"

He didn't respond and she went on, too upset to stop.

"My emotions ran deep then and deeper still after I met you. I never considered outward beauty crucial to love – nor did my father to marry my mother. _How many times did I tell you that? _But my God, Erik – I was so attracted to you from the moment we met I think I might have done anything you asked that first night you brought me here. Had you taken me to your bed then I wouldn't have stopped you; I was willing to suffer the consequences of such a sin. I am _captivated_ by you, by everything about you, more so after we have finally come together and I…" she broke off, even in her ardent rant her lingering shyness not allowing her to go into detail over the merits of his body. "You choose not to see it, why I don't fully understand, but you are an attractive man."

He snorted and she scowled.

"You think _me_ beautiful, but _I_ have always thought my appearance unremarkable. So does that make me wrong, or you? My eyes, so I've been told by many in the theater, are too large for my face, haunted, and the color of dirt …"

His eyelids flickered open to glare at her. "Your eyes are luminous and beautiful, the color of mink …"

"My complexion is too pasty …"

"The color of cream …"

"And my mouth is too full and wide …"

"Your mouth is perfect." His words sounded like an accusation. "Everything about _your appearance_ is _perfect_, Christine."

"In your estimation."

He glowered at her.

"And in _my_ estimation, _you_ are perfect."

"Perfectly grotesque."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "One flaw, _one flaw_ is the scope of all you can see. _That_," her eyes flicked to the side to take in the twisted part of his face, "doesn't change who you are or anything about the rest of you." Her hand lifted to the smooth part of his face, her fingers tracing his cheekbone. "This part of you looks as if it could have been carved by God's archangels …"

He raised his dark brow in mockery. "While the other side was chipped away by Lucifer's demons. It begs quite the conundrum, my dear."

"You're impossible to talk to when you're like this!"

She pushed hard at his shoulders in irritation, trying to break free from him and leave the bed.

He grabbed her arms and pushed her back into the mattress.

"_You're not going anywhere!_"

She blinked up into his burning eyes and grim countenance in shock, torn between demanding he let her go and begging him to cease their unwanted argument and make passionate love to her.

The tension between them electrified the air with the vehemence of white-hot anger and red-hot desire, both emotions barely simmering controlled between them.

"Damn you, little Prying Pandora, you could not refrain from loosing the box's morbid secret yet one more time, could you? _My Little Vexing Venus!_ You could not refrain from meddling in your _foolish ploy_ to shed light on a past barren of any semblance of love or mercy!"

She winced at his quiet attack. "No, you're wrong about my reasons. The past isn't what's important! It's the present that counts."

"I have lived thirty-one years in contempt of my face. My contempt and the contempt of others. _Do not think _I can so easily let that go!"

"Only because _you _choose _not to_ relinquish it!"

"**_Thirty-one years, Christine!_**" he roared.

"So let the next thirty-one be different. Let me help you make them different!"

"You have no idea what all I've suffered!"

"_Then_ _tell me!_ _Share_ with me. Let me help you_ forget_ as you've helped m –"

Her fervent words were cut off as his mouth crashed down on hers, brutal and punishing, intent on silencing her. His hands wrapped like vices below her wrists, forcing her arms up beside her head, his knees straddling her, until she was completely at his mercy.

She whimpered and some remaining shred of sanity that did not want to hurt her caused him to lighten the pressure of his mouth on hers. She did not recoil or try to escape a second time. Instead, her tongue pushed through his stiff lips, insistent and hungry, finding his tongue with which to meld.

The anger, the argument, the resentment – all of it failed to matter as Erik yielded to the fierce desire that had been building since he entered their bedchamber. Holding her down, he rained kisses over her neck, her collarbone, her breasts, drawing the erect tip of one into his mouth.

She groaned and whimpered again, fighting against his strong hold but still he did not let her go. His mouth took in more of her, suckling more strongly, before moving down a moist trail over her midriff, her stomach and navel, to the triangle of her short dark curls, as far as he could reach without letting go of his captive hold on her. She gasped in stunned shock and her fragrance enticed him, but he was too near the edge to partake in new discoveries of the mysteries of her flesh and brought his mouth up along her silken curves until he fastened it over her other breast.

She cried out, again struggling against his hold, again whimpering.

"_Let go - of me!_" Her words were urgent, breathless and desperate.

He ignored her, continuing to relentlessly suckle while she squirmed and panted beneath him. He trailed his tongue and lips over the smooth globe of her breast up to the slim column of her neck.

"Please, Erik … _let me go,"_ she begged again, more softly.

At last his passionate eruption of anger diminished, he surrendered to her plea and released his hold on her arms, bracing his hands on the bed as he began to pull away.

With a harsh exhalation of relief, Christine's hands flew to the edges of his robe and ripped it open, the loosened sash offering no deterrent. Crushing the material in tight fists, she pulled down hard to bring his naked body flush against her own.

They both gasped as he fell against her – he in astonished surprise, she in pleasured longing. The sudden smooth heat of skin on skin pushed them to the limits of what they could endure; his shaft throbbed hard and thick and demanding, pressing into her soft stomach.

Christine wrapped her arms around his back inside the robe, grateful to be freed from the manacles his hands had been, finally able to touch and hold him. Her hands traveled every inch of his scarred and smooth skin she could reach as the pressure twisted and grew inside. His hand moved between her thighs, finding her wet and ready to receive him, and he groaned against her mouth as her hands went to his hips, trying to push him down her body as she wriggled beneath him.

He gave in to what they both needed with one hard thrust. Her thick lashes fluttered, her eyes rolling back in dark pleasure. Breathing fast, he looked at her face, so beautiful in its desire, and slowly began to move within her thirsty core.

Her eyelids flickered open, the expression in her glowing eyes and on her flushed face unchanged though she now stared closely at the paradoxical countenance of glorious angel and grotesque demon – both who fiercely claimed possession of her smooth, supple body. Her eyes never once flinched in disgust or dismay, but softened with a look of such profound love that Erik could not begin to comprehend or challenge. While staring into his unmasked face as he joined them so deeply she could still look at him _like_ _that_ …?

"Christine," he whispered the two syllables of her name in wondering adoration, his stunned mind at last opening to the truth of what she had so long tried to tell him. Her hands lifted to cradle his face, her steady fingers smoothing over the mismatched sides with the same sweet measure, the same tender affection. No pity twisted her features, nor did she bear the solemn, determined expression of a martyr. Her soft smile was one of bliss, her kisses pronounced with hunger.

"_Mon Erik,_" His name on her lips was a gentle breath against his own, "_mon amour, Mon Ange __…_"

The hot sting of moisture pricked the back of his eyelids and he closed them in determination. Nearly every time they had come together the tears had come at some point as well. He would NOT weep again. But even as he gritted his teeth against the powerful emotion that stripped his hardened heart to become so damned vulnerable, he felt his body shudder with repressed sobs as she continually kissed his devilish face while he quietly moved within her heavenly walls. She kissed the tear that slipped from his drooping eyelid and pulled back to regard him in question, her eyes now shining with tears of compassionate concern, as if she also experienced the inexplicable ache in his heart that rendered him emotionally torn.

He shook his head a little in silent reply, unable to speak, and buried his mouth against hers, wishing only to lose himself in her softness and sweetness, to lose all of himself in his Angel's lush warmth.

Their quiet tears mixed, their rapid breaths mingled, their thundering hearts beat in one accord. They rocked together in tender harmony, each stroke binding them closer, until the need for absolute fulfillment became too great to ignore. Rapid and strong, their tempo changed, as he plunged deep and she pulled him desperately to her, the pressure now an agony and an ecstasy that made her cry out in urgent need. Bright light flashed beyond her closed lids as she shattered around him, her walls swiftly tightening around his engorged flesh again and again, encouraging his own release. Moments later he followed, whispering her name and spilling his warm seed into her body.

Holding fast to one another they drifted, still trembling, from the lofty realm of bliss into the soothing warmth of utter contentment, their bodies and emotions sated and spent. And in that perfect moment in their Phoenix/Venus bed, beneath the rose of secrecy, words were no longer essential as their hearts beat in tune to a message as ancient as time that conveyed the depth of their love for one another:

Two secrets no longer kept had become one spoken sentiment utterly shared. For this moment … for all eternity.

**x**

Angel or Phantom. Monster or man, it failed to matter. Erik knew without further doubt that Christine's love for him was incredibly unreserved and entirely genuine, no matter what face he wore.

Thus, as he stood near and watched her stretch her magnificent body in the luxurious ease of fulfillment that had become her habit after they made love, he could almost smile at her pitiful attempt to hide his mask that her hand inadvertently brushed. He watched as she pretended not to notice and covered much of it with the back of her fingers, nudging it closer to the pillow in a clear effort to tuck the silk beneath.

He lifted his brow in deliberate question. A guilty look flashed into her eyes.

With a resigned quirk to her mouth, she gathered the black silk into her hand and sat up while holding the rumpled sheet to her breasts. Wordlessly, somewhat sheepishly she offered his mask back to him.

He took it then tilted her chin upward with the tips of his fingers, leaning down to drop a kiss to her lips still swollen and rosy from the kisses they had shared. Her hand curled around his nape, keeping him with her when he would pull away, their next kiss richer than the first. He retreated from her lips and she grabbed an end of his sash he had just retied.

"If you do not let me go, I may forget about feeding you and you will starve," he warned lightly.

"But it would be such a lovely way to expire." She giggled in shy playfulness, opened her mouth as if she would say more, reconsidered then released the tie. "What will you bring me?"

"A platter I earlier prepared." He stepped into his slippers. "I returned it to the cold box."

"Cold box?"

"An invention I made to keep food cold. It saves it from perishing too quickly."

Her eyes grew round with wonder. "You truly are a genius."

He shrugged. "Necessity made it imperative that I learn various skills in order to dwell underground."

"Do you ever wish you could live in the world above?"

"Is that what you wish, Christine?" He could not help the edge that cut into his words. "To live above?"

She looked at him in confusion. "But I do, or I will. During the days of practice and singing in your operas."

"Of course." He closed his eyes briefly, struggling not to be so defensive.

"I only wondered if _you_ miss it."

"My time in living above was quite jaded, my dear. Those days hardly hold fond memories for me."

He saw the change in her eyes immediately – the memory of what he'd told her in the chapel, of living in a cage. The memory of the lashings her hands had discovered when they first made love.

"I'm sorry, Erik. I wasn't thinking."

He winced at her sad remorse, inwardly berating himself as a fool. "No, it is I who should apologize. I never was versed in social etiquette to know when I'm being offensive, at least some of the time. I've made a habit of resorting to the ease of mistrust and bitter mockery as a method to survive. I don't know how to be anything else."

At his blunt honesty, she reached for his arm and laid her hand on it. "You don't have to be anything other than what you are with me. I don't want you to practice decorum for the sole purpose of shielding the truth of your feelings, if it means we will then live in another pretense. I only want openness and honesty between us, Erik. Just as you removed the physical walls between us – I wish the same for the invisible ones as well. I'm well accustomed to your mockery and caustic behavior after nearly ten years of living with it. I'm just so thankful to have finally won your trust." She looked a bit uncertain. "I have, haven't I?"

He winced at her casual dismissal of his past cruelties to her, resolved to learn restraint in his behavior when it came to Christine. In the back of his mind, one word rang out – _Persia! _– but he ignored the prompt and managed a smile. "I have told no one else all that I have shared with you. I have lived with mistrust and suspicion for so long – daily, for three decades – and such traits are difficult to relinquish, no matter how great my love for you, Ma Bel Ange. But for you alone, I will try. All I ask is that you remain patient with me."

She nodded sweetly and he couldn't resist another light kiss to her upturned lips before leaving to retrieve their meal.

Once he left, Christine fell back into the rumpled satin with a huge, happy smile that made her cheeks hurt she held it for so long. She stretched her arms high above, wishing to embrace the world, and let a little, girlish giggle escape as she remembered the past hour. With her arm crooked and stretched to the side, she brought her fingernail between her teeth and lightly bit down, another string of shy giggles escaping as she thought about their entire night together. She lay there thinking about all of it … thinking of her entrance to her new home and his beautiful music to welcome her, leading into their passionate duet … thinking of the discovery of the mysteries that followed … and followed … and followed twice more … thinking of the drawings in the illicit book and the many other mysteries she would like soon to uncap …

Suddenly she bolted straight up in bed, shock making her eyes go wide, just as Erik returned with a wide platter balanced precariously on the palm of his hand, the other holding the stems of two golden goblets.

"Christine, are you alright?"

"I just realized I don't know my new name – your surname!"

A jolt of alarm rushed through Erik. He lost his precarious hold on the platter, which went crashing to the ground.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Methinks the poor girl will never get to eat.**

**Smiles angelically****…(a cliffie? Who me?)**

**Runs.**


	32. But Can You Name the Face?

**A/N: Wow, wow, wow- thank you for all the great reviews! - oodles of dark chocolate roses tied with black silk ribbons to all of you - That's the most I've ever gotten for one chapter! You guys truly made my morning, day, night, week ****…(a nod of thanks to APhan for the idea you gave me to play with a bit ****… and a wave of welcome to all my new readers****…) Much thanks to my beta- so good to have you back! :D**

**And now ****…**

* * *

**But Can You Name the Face?**

**XXXII**

**.**

With her mouth and eyes wide open, Christine watched the platter fall from Erik's uncommonly graceless hold, the food tumbling to the floor. In his futile attempt to save the plate mid-air, he jarred the goblets and red fountains of wine sloshed over the rims and splashed to the stones.

Swiftly he knelt to move the food back to the platter, trying to hide his expression and stall for time to think. He wished now he'd tied on his mask. It not only covered the crux of his shame but also helped to conceal the core of his feelings.

She scrambled from the bed and donned her wrapper, hurrying to join him. Crouching down, she picked up a bowl of sliced apples, from which many but not all had fallen and set it aright on a nearby trunk then gathered slices of ham.

"It only needs a rinse," Erik muttered to fill in the taut silence as he replaced the bread and scraped up the slab of mashed butter, which was beyond repair. With the food returned to the platter, he hurriedly rose with it in an effort to escape having to give her an answer to the question that still churned in those ever-curious mink-like eyes.

He took the stairs down to the first level. The light and rapid slaps of bare feet on stone hurried after him.

"You must know your surname," she insisted from close behind, her voice hitting his upper back. "Or the priest might not have married us, since he would have needed such information for the records, wouldn't he? Of course he would," she answered her own question. "And he _did_ marry us. So you must have told him …"

He should have known she would follow. Nor was he surprised that she didn't give up in her quest to discover the truth.

"You told me the Spirit of the Past showed you the home in which you were born, and you saw your mother and father – so you_ would_ know who they are ..."

He took in a deep breath through his nostrils, letting it out through his teeth, not stopping until he reached the stove where he had left the kettle of hot water. He felt as if he were drowning in a scalding substance of a similar if intangible nature.

She was right on his heels, and once he set down the dishes and pivoted, he came face to face with her, so close, his body brushed hers.

"Don't I have the right to know, since I also bear your name? And do _not_ tell me it is Monsieur O.G. or Monsieur Phantom either! I will not be known as Madame Ghost …"

He took hold of her upper arms and set her back a step so he could move to walk around her. She grabbed him above his elbow before he could execute what had become yet another ineffectual evasion.

"Please, Erik … why will you not tell me? Is it so unreasonable a request?"

Her eloquent eyes beseeched him, her plea now soft and hopeful.

"You should wear your slippers, Christine. The flagstones are much too cold. You could get a chill."

"Oh, no – do not even _think_ to divert the subject to the matter of my feet! My physical well being is fine, thank you."

"For now. I do not wish you to become unwell."

"Tell me your name – _our _name – and I'll go find my slippers. I dropped them near the shore last night."

Instead, he moved past her, locating her footwear and her knotted bundle near the petal-laden rowboat she'd taken. He brought both back, laid the bundle on the table and offered her slippers to her. Obstinately, she folded her arms across her breasts.

His mouth thinned. "Be reasonable, Christine."

"Reasonable? You're one to talk of reason! Tell me my new name."

"Vexing Venus? Impish Angel?"

"My _true_ _name_, Erik!"

"Put on your slippers – or would you prefer I respond to this current mode of childish behavior by putting you over my knee?"

Her eyes widened at his grim insinuation. "You wouldn't …"

His brow lifted wryly. "That sounds like a challenge. Do you forget whom you are addressing, my dear?"

At his soft, veiled threat alluding to his lengthy tenure as the notorious Phantom, she sulked, glowering at him, and snatched the slippers from his hand. Instead of moving to the chair, she stood, balancing on one foot then the other with her palm pressed to the wall as she hurriedly slipped each shoe over her toes and tugged it past her heel. "There, are you satisfied?"

"For the present." He smiled wickedly and turned back to the stove.

She grabbed his arm. "Well, I'm not! … Erik," she insisted when he wouldn't look at her. "Why will you not tell me your surname?"

Tense seconds elapsed before he sighed then again turned to face her. "You are certain you wish to know?"

She drew her brows together in incredulous confusion. "Of course I wish to know. Have I not been asking you endlessly for the past few minutes?"

His eyes fell shut in weary resignation when he realized she would not surrender until she received an answer. He had known she would ask eventually – just had not again expected her to take him unaware, what was becoming a regular pattern for them.

While he had waited for her in the chapel, directly after he told the shocked priest his true surname for the marital records and ordered him not to speak it during the ceremony, he had toyed with creating a name out of thin air for her, when she did ask; she would never know the difference. Leroux had popped into mind, a name that came from nowhere, but for whatever reason Erik "the Red" did intrigue. He even shared traits with the medieval Norseman who bore that name and was also exiled for murders committed. Whereas, Erik had chosen his self-appointed exile, in large part due to his tragic face. Yes, he _could_ tell another lie … but the thought had become distasteful. There had been too much deception between them, too many secrets, and regrettably there still must be in the matter of Persia. She was now his wife and he supposed she did deserve the horrid truth of his paternity, now that he no longer had a hope in hell to doubt what he once feared, since the night it had first been revealed to him. Nor would such a truth hold any consequence to the outcome of their future …

The appearance of his face he'd no control over and she wondrously accepted him despite its gross distortion. Even insisted he remain without a mask, though he had feared the gruesome sight might scar his sweet angel for life. Or be the curse upon her, as the gypsies cautioned all those who dared to look upon the twisted face of the devil's spawn with the evil eye. Older now, he knew it as having been the spiel of a merciless barker luring the gawking crowds to flirt with danger and see what dwelt within the cage. But at times he still did wonder if there might be truth in the warning …

"Erik…?"

Murder, on the other hand, had been a choice, a twisted distortion of his soul for whatever excuse his logic construed; her religious faith would never allow her to accept or condone what he'd done, not once in a crime of passion but numerous times in cold blood. He could never tell her such a heinous truth and risk losing her, having the gift of her love turn into the curse of hatred. Perhaps that was the true curse, always like a noose waiting to descend, visited upon them both …

"Erik, are you alright?"

He opened his eyes and studied the flawless countenance of his goddess. A glimmer of worry sparkled in her eyes.

This, the truth of his birth, he'd been powerless to manipulate. Just as he'd had no control over the misfortune of his face he had no control over the travesty of his parentage ... This, she also would not blame him for. Perhaps she might then sympathize with his undeserved plight, though he wanted no show of debasing pity. Yet she might better understand why he did not want her near the latest bane of his existence who erroneously thought himself an expert in matters of opera.

"Sit down, Christine."

Instead, as if fearing the serious timbre of his voice, she clutched his arm. "What is it, Mon Ange? What has you look so desolate all of a sudden? Surely the truth cannot be so bad?"

"You should sit down."

He steadily pushed her toward the chair, walking with her, but she stubbornly shook her head, keeping hold of both his arms.

"I'm sure it's not so bad that I'll collapse in a dead faint." Her attempt at confidence failed, escaping in a breath of uncertain laughter.

He cocked his eyebrow in mockery. "You've not yet heard what I have to say."

"Really, Erik, I'm not some swooning, overly delicate creature that can't handle a little shock. I do have a bit of backbone. After our long involvement with one another, you must know that by now. Besides, how bad can it be?" She grinned in unfeigned amusement, her poise resurfacing, clearly happy now that her wish to know would soon be granted. "Your last name isn't Prussian, like our enemies that France has been fighting, is it? No matter. It won't change the way I feel about you. Or perhaps it is Bonaparte? Will you now tell me that you are a prince, like Belle found out the morning after she swore her love to her dear Beast in marriage?"

"A prince? No, Mon Ange. However, I have discovered that I have the right to be Vicomte, though I will never lay claim to the title."

Her smile faded, her eyes widening and growing more intent. "A vicomte ...?" She blinked a few times then softly nodded. "Yes, I can see it, now that I think about it. Your news doesn't really surprise me. There has always been something dignified about your manner of doing things, the way you walk and talk and dress. Something intrinsically noble that sets you apart from all the rest who work in this theater." She smiled again, her expression smug, even somewhat playful. "As you can see, I didn't fall into a swoon. But you have yet to tell me your full name. Whom do I address? Vicomte ...?"

"De Chagny."

She stared, blinked twice. Her hands then fell away from his arms as she slipped down like a ragdoll, her derriere hitting the chair with a thud. He was grateful he'd had the foresight to push her toward it.

"De ..." she whispered, shaking her head as if she'd not heard him clearly or could not say the rest.

"Yes, my dear – Chagny," he filled in for her, though speaking the foul name twice left an acerbic taste in his mouth.

She gaped at him. He reached for a nearby wine bottle, wishing a good stiff brandy was just as close, and poured them both a full goblet then turned back to offer one to her. To his curious shock, her lips were turned down in a frown and her dark eyes glimmered in anger.

"That's not one bit amusing, Erik."

"I agree. It's tragic."

"No." She crossed her arms. "It's not amusing that you would use the friendship Raoul and I shared to play this foolish prank when I earnestly wish to know the truth. Is this latest pretense your way of seeking retaliation for his presence in my dressing room when you caught him there last week? I thought we were far past that. Or are you still upset about that silly misunderstanding on the rooftop ages ago? I told you he means nothing to me, have shown that it is only _you_ I love ..."

He set the untouched goblets on the table and moved toward his mini stage. There, he picked up the crumpled ball of paper he'd deposited a week before.

"...Why must you continue to hold this silly grudge against him when you now know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you have my absolute love and always will, that I want no man but you in my life. I don't understand, Erik ..."

He returned to stand in front of her.

"And I'm hurt by this little subterfuge. And that you still won't tell me your true name, since it's now my name, also. Clearly you must know it ..."

Her words dwindled to nothing as he unraveled the paper and held it open before her eyes.

She looked at him in uncertainty before lowering her attention to the parchment, which she then snatched from his hands. Her huge eyes followed the lines of scrawled handwriting of the detective he'd hired. He knew the moment she saw. The color seeped from her face; slowly she let her hands still clutching the parchment fall to her lap, her gaze remaining fixed, now on empty air.

"The Spirit of the Past told me that night," he explained in an emotionless tone. "I hired the detective shortly after the Bal Masque, to find proof, to be certain. He searched through records and also spoke with the priest who officiated my baptism – apparently it was assumed I might die and my mother insisted on the foolish rite, hopeful that God would be merciful and allow me into heaven."

He paced a short distance away, running a hand through his hair. "The detective spoke with those at the estate, though not my father – he refused to speak with the man." His lips turned down bitterly as they had when he first read the missive, which included the Comte's insistence that he had no son but one. The milksop of a boy that everyone called Vicomte.

"The birth was recorded and the priest who officiated gave a detailed description of my face – warped on the right side, unblemished on the left. The wretched truth of it is there in black and white. I was born on the Yuletide in the year eighteen hundred and thirty nine to the Comte and Comtesse de Chagny." He bit the detestable words out. "One of the kitchen maids revealed what she'd overheard and seen during the summer I was three – how my stepmother sold me into slavery to a band of wandering gypsies. The times and dates coincide with the detective's findings of a gypsy band whose carnival began to put on display 'The Devil's Child.'" Frowning, he turned back toward her.

Her eyes were lowered to the paper. "My God," she whispered. "It's true …"

"Yes, my dear. Unfortunately so."

"But ..." Her startled gaze swiftly lifted to his. "That means you – _you are_ _brothers!_"

He scowled. "Half brothers – also a relationship I do not care to claim."

She stared at him in utter disbelief then reached a shaky hand for her wine and took a long drink, tipping half the goblet back. Suddenly she set it down with a bang that had him regard her with surprise.

"All this time _you have **known**_ that Raoul is your brother and still you hold such terrible animosity toward him?"

"Did you not hear a word I said?"

"I heard." Her eyes flashed at him. "And it makes no sense. Raoul wasn't _even born _when those things happened to you! So why punish him for his father's – your father's – sins?" She shook her head again as if dazed, clearly still stunned to realize they shared the same father.

So much for any hope of her understanding his position. He should have realized – had he not seen her befriend the interloper in her dressing room?

"I have **_more_** than enough reason to hold animosity against that insolent boy for the present state of affairs without delving into the past! Twice he has tried to take you from me. _Have you so quickly forgotten, Christine?_"

She shrugged as if that was of no significance. "And I have told you repeatedly I'm not his for the taking. I'm **_your_ **_wife_. But you have an opportunity to know _your brother_ – my God. _Raoul__… _is _your **brother**." _She blinked again and took another bracing swallow of wine. "Raoul is not like his father – your father," she said more softly once she set the goblet down a second time. "I met the Comte when I was a child."

"Cease with grouping me into that wretched family. I want no part or parcel with them."

"Raoul is different. He's not unkind –"

Erik scowled. "Nor do I wish to continue to hear the dubious attributes of that pandering young idiot."

She looked up at him with wounded eyes. A film of tears glistened there and rendered him wretchedly helpless.

"Do you know what I would give to have my beloved papa back on this earth?" she whispered. "And my mama? To have had brothers and sisters and not have felt so alone or been without family while growing up …?"

The vulnerable tremble in her voice battered against his stubborn resolve.

"Christine …"

"Meg has been like a sister to me, and Raoul like a brother ..." Her mouth parted further in sudden understanding. "And now _he_ _is _my brother? How very strange …" She blinked, again coming out of her momentary lapse of shock. "But _you_ have the opportunity to meet and know a member of your family – and you refuse to take it?"

"Precisely."

Erik moved toward the stove to rinse off the food, needing distance and work to put his hands to. He should have known his wish to evade the tiresome issue had become a study in futility. His supposed genius should have figured out a great many things that had evaded his knowledge in this novel feeling of defenselessness that had emerged since their union. It was a feeling he reviled, because it made him weak, yet the reason for it was his greatest joy, to know and be with Christine.

God, he was a pathetic mess. He dearly wished for his mask to hide behind and almost tied it back on.

"I'm not suggesting that you take him into your home and befriend him ..."

She had left her chair and come up behind him.

"No."

"Just that you give him a chance, meet with him one time ..."

"No."

"Will you not even try?"

He turned to look at her, narrowing his eyes. "Why are you so adamant that I should?"

"Don't look at me as if you now mistrust me." She stood, as regal as a queen. "Have I given you any reason to feel that way? Again I will tell you – you have no cause to be jealous. I urge you to reconsider for your sake alone."

He threw down the ham he'd rinsed back onto the platter, trying valiantly to cling to his earlier resolution of patience where she was concerned. "Perhaps it would be wisest if we change the topic of conversation."

"Seriously, Erik?" She looked at him in incredulous disbelief. "You tell me that you are a vicomte, not only that you are a vicomte and a member of the nobility, but that you are _the_ _true_ _Vicomte de Chagny_ – then think to brush it aside like we were discussing a scene from an opera and speak of other matters?"

"I had hoped to."

Her eyes widened and the color washed from her face a second time. He grabbed her arms before she could sink to the ground. He shouldn't have given her such a large amount of wine on an empty stomach. At least it hadn't been brandy she'd so carelessly tossed down.

"That makes me a vicomtesse," she whispered.

"Only if I were to claim the title. Which I will not."

"I don't want to be a vicomtesse!" she exclaimed as if she'd not heard his quiet words.

Her adamant statement left him surprised. Did not all women appreciate title and wealth if it was theirs for the taking?

"Then I suppose it is indeed fortunate that I have no plans to haunt the de Chagny estates and seek my rightful claim."

She nodded slowly, her eyes solemn, but still trembled in his grasp. He should have waited to tell her after she'd eaten, no matter if she had insisted on an answer until she was blue in the face or he was red in it from refusing.

He swung her up into his arms, thought about setting her back in the chair, but changed his mind and headed for their bedchamber.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"You should lie down."

"There's no need. I'm alright now."

"Perhaps I have developed a fondness for carrying you and only seek an excuse to get you back into bed."

The rosy color that had been absent flooded her cheeks and the smile he had hoped to see tilted her lips. "Are you trying to shock me relentlessly, Erik? Because I believe that after all of last night _and_ this morning or afternoon or whatever time of day it is – and with what you just told me – I have moved far beyond _that_ point."

He chuckled. "I'm merely being truthful, my dear. Open and honest, as you have requested." Reaching the bed he set her carefully down and straightened. "I will return with the food."

"A vicomte ..." she said beneath her breath, looking toward the Phoenix head at the foot of the bed. She shook her head in disbelief. "… a victomtesse... _de Chagny _..."

He remembered how long it had taken him to get over the unpleasant shock. He would prefer to drop the subject entirely, to forget the truth forever now that it had been aired, but one matter puzzled and prompted him to speak. "I am aware of my aversion to the prospect of claiming that title, but why do you reject it?"

"Is it not obvious?"

"Enlighten me."

"A vicomtesse cannot take the stage to perform in public before those not of her station. She cannot sing in operas, only in other noble's homes and only if invited."

He knew that but wondered how she did.

"Meg told me," she said before he could ask.

"And you asked Meg … why?"

He tried not to let a hint of the jealousy that so swiftly rushed through him infiltrate his casual question. Clearly he failed.

Again, she folded her arms over her breasts and frowned at him. "I didn't ask her. She told me."

"Because of that insufferable boy, no doubt."

"She did want me to be aware of the situation, yes, since she seemed certain that Raoul would propose. Everyone in the opera house has come to know of his interest to renew our friendship, though _they_ did not associate him with me in something so respectable as marriage ..."

Erik turned sharply on his heel before he said something he would regret.

"Where are you going?" she asked in concern before he made it through the entryway.

"**_To get your thrice-damned breakfast!_**"

He took the time away from her to collect his calm, disgusted with himself that he'd not been able to keep his irritation in check and exercise patience for even five minutes since he'd made the resolution to do so. She certainly couldn't be held accountable for what the ignorant rabble of this theater thought, when she'd done so little to warrant such damnable conclusions. He had known of their wretched allusions, of course, but to hear Christine state them so matter-of-factly had ignited the short wick of his temper. He slammed the rinsed ham back on the plate next to the bread.

These pathetic attempts at patience and trust would take more effort to accomplish than he initially realized. He couldn't understand why he was so apt to jump to his own wretched conclusions when she had so selflessly and earnestly proven her love many times over – in her acceptance of all that he was, in her giving of all of herself to him. A month ago, even a week, he would never have believed such a dream could be his to claim. And she _was_ his. Heart, mind, soul, and body. He failed to understand the conflicted workings of his own mind and heart when it came to truly believing that. Since the phenomenon that began last night, he often spoke the words in his mind that she belonged only to him to emblazon that truth in his brain, or perhaps to convince himself that she would _remain_ his wife and live out their years together …

And she _would __…_ if he was careful.

Just as he had learned to withhold trust to survive from day to day, so he must now learn to surrender that same faith. How to do so was the puzzle. What appeared to come easily to everyone else terrified him. Yet if he were to place his faith in anyone it would be in the remarkable woman he had asked to share his life.

Armed with new resolve and his third attempt to bring her a meal, he entered their bedchamber. She looked at him uncertainly, as if gauging his mood and response.

He lifted his brow in amusement, slightly lifting the platter. "Perhaps this time will meet with success?"

A smile of relief lit her features at his changed mood and she nodded, scooting over on the bed to make room for him. He set the platter between them on the coverlet. Thankfully, this time they were able to enjoy their repast. While they ate, he noticed her attention occasionally drift to his face, a tiny smile touching the corners of her lips.

After the fourth glance, he arched his brows in question. "What, Christine?"

"Nothing. Only that I'm so happy this day finally came. For us. Here. Together."

He reached for her hand and covered it with his own. "The fulfillment of my every dream is to be with you for all of one lifetime, Mon Ange."

Her expression softened with love, her smile tremulous. They stared into one another's eyes several moments longer before returning to their meal.

"Erik?"

He recognized that mild little hitch in her tone, when something puzzled her and she wished to discover its mystery. With the alarming order of her recent thoughts, he braced himself for what would come next.

"I was wondering …" She looked toward the vaporous blanket of mist curling up slowly from the lake and barely repressed a little shiver. "Now that this is my home too, well … how exactly am I to bathe?" Her cheeks went an endearing shade of embarrassed pink. "I mean, the lake is very cold this time of year, isn't it? Or do you heat the water on the stove and have a cast iron tub – or perhaps a porcelain one, like the prop that was brought to my dressing room –"

She gave a startled gasp when he laid his finger against her lips at the same time he leaned toward her until they were almost nose-to-nose.

"I have a secret."

At his low, enigmatic words her eyes widened and sparkled with eagerness.

"And will you share freely or must I again question endlessly?" she asked with a soft laugh when he said nothing more.

"Only with you will I share, Mon Ange. But Later …"

"Erik," she protested with a smile she tried to disguise as a little pout. "Why will you not tell me now?"

"Later."

"But –"

Before she could finish, he replaced his finger with his lips in a tender kiss, and she agreed that for the present any more secrets could wait.

**xXx**

They spent the afternoon engaging in pleasant conversation and spoke of shared interests, the topics ranging from music and the arts to literature to the everyday occurrences at the theater, both of them always finding their way back to music. Next to one another, the opera was their greatest shared love.

Christine was careful not to broach the volatile subject of his family a second time, not wishing to lose this wonderful new ease that had developed between them through their intimacy. At some point, she _would_ speak with him again, hoping to persuade him to make peace with his half brother – whom he had never even met! She could still scarcely believe that Erik was a de Chagny and the rightful Vicomte!

Once her love was declared, Belle had found in her beast a royal, and the morning after her wedding to her own dark prince, Christine learned her beloved Angel and Phantom was a true noble. Such fantasies could not be real; surely she truly did exist in a world of make-believe. Up until a month ago, she had also not believed that spirits would visit a mortal on earth and take him to their netherworld, offering a glimpse of the past and what the future could hold – until it happened to Erik. She almost would not be surprised to learn that she descended from a fairy queen.

She giggled at the absurd notion, darting a quick glance to the entrance to see if her beloved had returned. He had stepped out for a short time and she took the opportunity to unwrap her bundle of few treasured possessions on the crimson coverlet: A cherished book of fairy tales her father had given her one birthday found a place on a flat-topped trunk near their bed. Next, she lifted a small daguerreotype in a simple brass frame of her papa standing behind her mother, who was seated with his hand on her shoulder. She brushed a gentle finger over their slight smiles.

"I found my true love, too, Papa. Thank you for sending my Angel of Music to me."

She smiled softly then set the frame down on her book of tales. A few satin hair ribbons she left beside her nightdress and the one day dress she had, along with an extra pair of stockings. The clothing she wore belonged to wardrobe, no garment truly her own, save for the stockings and other undergarments, and she felt relieved that Meg had included the dress, since Christine had nothing but what she'd worn to entice Erik last night. Whenever she needed a change of outfit, she visited the costume department, as did all the girls in the chorus. Only her wedding gown that Erik designed and had the seamstress make for her was hers to call her own. She smiled, knowing Madame had tucked it safely away. That left the long, oak jewel box, also a gift from Papa, containing her brush, a decorative comb and her first special rose from her beloved Angel. She gently set the box on the table by her bed.

He entered as she spread the dress out over the coverlet, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles with her hand. A gray woolen frock with navy ribbons and long fitted sleeves, it would suit her needs well in her new home. He raised a brow as he watched her actions but said nothing. She smiled at him, her heart giving a little leap of eagerness to see him as it always did, even if only mere minutes had separated them.

"Is it my imagination or is it warmer in this room?"

"It is not your imagination. Come and I will show you." He held out his hand to her, the deep timbre of his voice sending delicious tingles of a different warmth down her spine.

She moved to join him, taking his hand, and he led her to the back of the bedchamber, near the bed, where a large metal pipe had been mounted against the wall, the bottom of it at the height of her shoulders. It went upward, disappearing into the ceiling.

"Put your hand beneath," he instructed.

She did so, her eyes opening wider in surprise to feel heated air caress her skin.

"If the air makes the room too hot, there is a lever, here" – he moved a hand to the back of the pipe to show her – "push it away from you and an iron plate swivels into place to block the flow of heat." She watched in amazement as a circular metal disc moved across the opening and the hot breeze no longer touched her palm. He pulled the lever forward. The disc moved away and the heat returned.

"This was one of several reasons I did not bring you back here with me when you asked it. The lair was in a state of utter confusion."

She blinked in tender realization that he had done this for her comfort.

"I did not wish you to suffer my fate, to daily live with the cold and damp. Certainly I did not want to risk you falling ill. However, this chamber is the only area of the lair that benefits from the heat. It stands directly below the furnace room, five levels above."

"I am touched," she whispered, filled with awe at his genius. "Thank you for doing this for me."

"I would do anything for you, Mon Ange. You have only to ask."

She nodded softly, her eyes lowering to his mouth. "Kiss me."

Before she finished uttering her husky words, she moved into his arms almost without realizing she'd done so and lifted her face to his, exulting when his lips brushed hers without hesitation. Gone were the days when she had to beg for his touch. Now he gave it freely.

His kiss came gentle and undemanding, one of his hands moving upward to brush his fingertips lightly along her jaw. A spark of desire instantly inflamed her blood and she pushed closer, enveloping herself in the welcome heat of his body while teasing the tip of her tongue provocatively along his lips. He opened to her with a groan, their innocent kiss erupting into passion. Her palms pressed against his chest, her fingers curling. The sensitive tips grazed his solid flesh, the soft springy hairs tickling her skin.

He pulled away, startling her with the suddenness of his act. Before she could protest, he laid his finger against her lips a second time that day, his eyes losing the deep emerald as the darkness of desire filled them.

"It is time to share my secret."

Intrigued by his husky invitation, Christine nodded in readiness, sure by the intense look of promise in his eyes that she would be delighted with whatever new discovery her intriguing man of mystery wished to share.

**xXx**


	33. What Unspoken Secrets

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! Just a little warning- this chapter deserves a definite M rating****… and now ****…**

* * *

**Chapter XXXIII**

**What Unspoken Secrets ****…**

.

Erik took Christine by the hand, leading her to the other side of the lair and through the curtained recess she discovered on the morning that Madame Giry found her standing in her nightdress. So much had happened since then; that day seemed months in the past instead of mere weeks.

She held back when he tried to pull her with him down the corridor, her attention never wavering from the unknown chamber. "What is beyond that drape?"

He looked at the black velvet curtain at which she stared. She glanced at him, waiting for his answer. A hint of what she perceived as unease flashed in his expression, much easier to discern now that he had dispensed with the mask. She was grateful he'd not again put it on and, during their meal, had not been able to curb a small smile that she had at last succeeded in convincing him to dispense with the mask altogether. At least for the present while in her company. That was all that mattered. Doubtless, when they went above, he would again wear the covering; nor would she expect him to stop. From what she'd seen in the near decade she had lived in the theater, in their foolish ignorance very few would be able to look beyond his face and accept him for the remarkable man he was – that is should anyone catch a glimpse of the elusive Phantom of the Opera unmasked. For his sake, she would do all on her part to make sure that never happened.

"It is a room I use for storage," he said vaguely.

"I'd like to see."

"It is cluttered. Everything is in disarray."

"And the rest of the lair is not?" she teased, recalling the mad jumble of items stacked on every inch of every furnishing.

A tense smile was her answer. "Another time, Christine."

"Just a peek?" she insisted, her curiosity even stronger than when she'd first laid eyes on the unknown chamber.

He did not respond and she thought he might again refuse, but he moved forward and pushed the drape back a fraction. No light filled the area, the only illumination coming from the torch he carried, which he did not bring forward to light the room. She got the vague impression of crates, trunks, and shadowy, odd shapes of what looked like large containers before he closed the curtain.

Her curiosity was hardly satisfied though she had to agree from the little she'd seen that the room was hardly noteworthy and, as he said, only a place for storage.

"Come." His eyes glowed deep jade in the light of the dancing flame. "My secret awaits."

Eagerly she nodded and once more he took her hand, leading her down the long corridor. Her eyes widened to see colored engravings of animals and people in different activities painted on the walls. One man lay on what looked like a cot between two others who carried it. What could be a wild boar stood on a dais and three people bowed before it.

"Did you do that?" she whispered. The torch's sole flame rippled in flickering shadows along the smooth walls of the murky cavern and instilled in her a need for hushed conversation, as if she had entered a place of worship.

"Those drawings and etchings were here before I made this my home, as were many of the statues you have seen carved in the walls. Also the giant statues of Atlas outside the portcullis, and the many staircases that lead to different levels of the cellars. I would have had to live much longer than the score of years I've inhabited these caverns to achieve all of this as one man, even with my magician's tricks and inventions. I suspect that an ancient tribe of druids gathered within these hidden walls, perhaps more than one sect, throughout the centuries."

"Why would they do that?"

"To gather in secret and perform sacred rites and rituals."

"Sacrifices?" she whispered.

"Perhaps."

She shivered at the thought, her eyes widening, and he chuckled.

"I assure you, Christine, we are the only ones to inhabit this dwelling. I have also made sure that no one from our century will interfere."

"The trapdoors," she whispered in grim acknowledgment, remembering her own close call with one.

"Yes, though I placed none of them in this corridor. Soon you will understand why."

She held his hand more tightly, bringing her other one up to grasp it also, reassured in the knowledge of her Angel's protection though she knew she was foolish to fear ghosts several centuries old. Spirits had come to Erik and they had not harmed him. Indeed, she was grateful for their intervention; without the fear of what they told him guiding his actions, Erik never would have terminated their association. As a result, she never would have sought him out in her desperation to keep him with her, and they might never have come to this place where they were joined as husband and wife. Sweet warmth flushed through her at the thought. Looking at it from that viewpoint ghosts could be a good thing to have in their home.

They walked a short distance further and came to a place where the corridor swerved to the left.

"We are almost there," he reassured as if sensing her mounting curiosity and excitement. The walk had taken no more than five minutes, surely, but in her impatience to know it felt twice that.

The gurgle of bubbling water reached her ears. Christine craned her neck to see ahead of Erik, peering over his shoulder. She noticed a soft glow in the rock wall ahead and discerned that it came from an opening in its middle.

He stopped and turned aside at the entrance to a chamber, allowing her to come up beside him while he watched her face, just as eager to see her response, as she was to see what the room held. Neither of them was disappointed.

"Oh, Erik …" she gasped, her eyes widening. Her mouth parted in astonished wonder.

He smiled at her dazed reaction and nodded for her to precede him through the entrance, wide enough for only one person to enter at a time. He followed her into the enclosed chamber that boasted a ceiling as high as a cathedral. The room was twice the size of their bedchamber, only circular, the walls a muted rose hue and different than the gray stone of the corridors. In its center frothed a pool of crystal clear water. Ledges were carved into the wall, upon which five candelabras sat, spaced apart, with many candles in each and every one alight, casting the room in a gentle golden glow. A silver bowl of dried rose petals sat near the pool on one ledge near where she stood.

"I brought that for you if you should wish the water scented. There are also vials of perfumed oils."

Christine could not find her voice. Never had she seen such a place or known anything like this existed. Even her experience in the luxurious porcelain tub paled in comparison to the exotic grandeur of what Erik offered.

She stared intently at the rock pool of clear water somewhat oval in shape and perhaps half the size of the theater's stage. She blinked, still stunned.

He came up close behind her. "The pool is shallow and ledges form natural seats along the rim in places. The water is heated, but not excessively hot – a spring that bubbles from deep below the earth; due to its constant motion it keeps the water pure. You will find the experience like nothing you could have ever imagined …" He spoke the last in a rich, sultry voice that brought a shiver of desire at the same time she felt his hands come from behind and untie her sash. His warm palms then slid up her sleeves and across the top of her shoulders. The velvet slipped from her body as his fingers slid along her collarbone and he disrobed her.

She stood naked, a part of her still shy and wishing to hide herself from his gaze, a greater part of her eager to share with him in this secret that now belonged to them. The rustle of velvet behind and the heat emanating from his body told her that he had rid himself of his wrapper as well.

"Come, Christine."

She doffed her slippers and his hand slipped into hers as he moved ahead to guide her. "Step over this rock and then onto the ledge as I do. I have found it the safest place to enter the pool."

The water all but forgotten, she couldn't keep her eyes from straying to his pale, toned body. His well-shaped legs and taut buttocks captured and held her interest as he stepped over a small outcropping of rock and down onto the rim of the pool, then onto the ledge within it. He straightened and the candlelight reflected off his back and the numerous criss-crosses of the scars from multiple lashings he had received. She winced with the knowledge of the terrible pain he had endured in his life, before her eyes lifted to study the strong slope of his shoulders and lean, muscular arms as the water enclosed him and he stepped further down to the bottom of the pool.

Her breath caught as he turned to look at her. His eyes darkened and he held out his hand. "Come, my Angel."

She moved forward and stepped over the shallow rock to the narrow rim of flat ground where she then crouched, placing her hand in his uplifted one. He showed her where to step down, helping her. As she did, her foot slipped on the smooth ledge, worn by water and time, and she gave a little yelp, grabbing his shoulders as he caught her.

"Easy … it's alright. I've got you."

He moved his hands to her waist, steadying her, as the effervescent water softly bubbled above her knees then to her thighs, tickling her skin as she crouched lower to join him. He lifted her down to stand with him, until the water reached just below her neck and her feet found solid footing. She blinked in awe, the experience as astounding as he said it would be.

The water felt like silk, incredibly soft and a few shades beyond warm but not too hot to scald or cause discomfort. The bubbling sensation of it made her skin tingle pleasantly and relaxed her at the same time it revived her blood. Or perhaps that was due to the feel of her soft curves pressed against the hard length of his naked body. She shivered, though she was far removed from being cold, and wrapped her arms loosely around his neck.

"I love your secret," she said just loud enough to be heard above the quietly bubbling water.

His smile was languid. "I'm glad."

They stared deeply into one another's eyes, a wealth of messages unspoken but felt between them.

"I love you," she whispered.

"Christine …" Her name from his lips came hoarse, and he dipped his head, his mouth finding hers, their tongues instantly tangling in need.

She whimpered with the strong emotion that threatened to make her heart and her blood and her senses combust and pulled slightly away to proclaim more fervently, "_God, how I love you!_"

Clutching the back of his hair in fistfuls, she crushed her lips against his in hunger, pressing her body as close to his as she was able. His hands moved to cup her bottom and lift her against him. With no thought except to get closer, she easily wrapped her legs around his hips, crossing her ankles at his back, the buoyancy of the water aiding her. The press of his manhood, thick and hard against her soft flesh made her dizzy with need and she clung to him desperately.

Erik groaned with the desire to have her again. He had not intended for this to happen, not this quickly, had wanted her to enjoy the healing effects of the heated spring. But the urge to take her again came fierce, as if they'd never been joined. It seemed the more they made love, the stronger the hunger grew, satisfied only a short time but never fully quenched and even sharper on its return…

The steamy water threatened to relax his leg and arm muscles more than he wished at the moment with his limber Angel wrapped around him. Without breaking their deep kiss, he moved back with her, until his thighs hit a narrow ledge, wide enough for only one person. She jumped a little at the sudden jarring, her lips moving slightly from his as her eyes fluttered open in confusion, then she smiled in understanding and moved her legs so that he could sit. Once he did, immediately he pulled her securely onto his lap, bringing her thighs to straddle his.

His hands roamed her back, tangling in her thick, damp hair, while her fingertips made wet ripples down his chest, causing him to inhale harshly at the sensation of her touch. She moved her hands to cup his face, staring down at him with such love the tears again threatened, before her lips covered his in passion, the long wet spirals of her curls acting as a curtain around them.

Desperate to have her again, he grabbed her silky bottom, pressing her against his strong need. Relentless in his hunger he moved her slowly in the water so that her sensitive folds rubbed against the hard column of his desire.

Christine gasped against his lips at the coveted feel of him against her wet flesh. The friction soon became too much to bear and she groaned with the ache of want, pressing her forehead to his, unable to contain her breath.

"Guide me, Ma Bel Ange …"

His husky order produced a shy smile and nod. With his hands clutched beneath her thighs, he lifted her as she delicately wrapped her fingers around his throbbing shaft, the first time she had done so. He moaned low in pleasure at the innocent touch of her hand.

Christine would have liked to explore with her fingers this part of him that had again become so thick and solid yet was so incredibly soft but more than that she wanted to feel his fullness inside her. She guided him to her entrance while his hands moved to her hips, slowly pressing her downward, helping her take him inside.

Her eyes opened wider the further he went. "Wait," she said on a strangled breath.

"What's wrong?" Even through his potent desire she heard the concern in the deep rumble of his voice.

"Nothing … It's just … No, it's – it's nothing." She had not realized the change in position would bring with it a sensation of even greater fullness almost to the point of pain. Remembering their first time to join, she waited while her body adjusted to the difference.

"Christine …" His hands slid up her hips to her waist.

Worried that he might actually end this incredible moment, she dispensed with the wait and clutched his shoulders as leverage, pushing down hard and fast the rest of the way. He gasped in shock while her eyes fluttered closed and she buried her face against his damp neck, holding tightly to him, feeling as if she might well and truly faint.

"_Dear God_," he grated in a guttural whisper.

She quietly echoed the sentiment, feeling him more deeply than ever before.

"Are you alright?" he whispered a short time later.

She felt as if he possessed every molecule of her being and she couldn't tell where she ended and he began. "Alright" was such a weak word to describe the intensity of emotion that coursed through her soul. The burn of her desire and the warmth of the bubbling water worked together to inflame her blood and invigorate her; at the same time she felt she might pass out from the incredible sensations of heat and need and pleasure and abundance.

Instead of answering him, she moved to cover his mouth with hers, clutching the wet tendrils of his hair at his nape then spreading her hands across the muscles at the back of his shoulders. She sucked in his lower lip, nibbling at it as she pulled away, as he'd often done to her, and he gasped into her mouth. Straightening she looked down into his eyes.

"Teach me, Dearest Maestro."

Erik stared at her in amazement, her throaty words reverberating through his soul even as his shaft throbbed so deeply inside her core, more deeply than he'd experienced, every inch of him gripped within her tight walls. The snug curls that covered the secrets of their bodies ground together as she moved in a sinuous ripple, engaging in her own self-taught lesson. Clutching his shoulders, she undulated her hips again then again. Her head fell back and a lyrical moan of pure pleasure escaped her lips.

Through heavy-lidded eyes he watched in a state of bewildered desire. Beads of water glistened with iridescence upon her skin that held a rosy-golden glow in the candlelight. Her hair, darkened and wet, streamed in loose ringlets to the water's surface fanning out around her and damply clinging to her svelte body. Between her lowered, thick lashes, her eyes sparkled like black diamonds. Sylphlike, she seemed part angel, part siren – ethereal in her beauty as she moved in a graceful slow rhythm, taking pleasure from him.

Breaking free of the spell that had him bound, he pressed his palm to her back, while his other hand pushed aside tendrils of her wet hair from the shining globe of her breast and he cupped its fullness in his hand. He drew her nipple into his mouth, eliciting her sharp cry as he grazed the taut bud with his teeth and tongue before suckling her. She lifted one of her hands to the back of his head encouraging him and let out his name in a throaty groan.

He matched his suckling to her hungered movements that grew more intense. Experience had taught him that she neared the threshold of release. Impatiently he brushed aside the wet tendrils of her hair covering the nipple of her other breast and fastened his mouth around its erect peak swirling his tongue around the rosy nub of flesh as he suckled.

She gave a stuttering cry and his hands grasped her hips, pushing her down hard against him with each undulation. He took more of her into his mouth, pressing her peak to the roof with his tongue as he sucked in her sweet flesh then pulled back to lightly slide his teeth along her satin breast to the rosy bud. Her nails dug into his skin as she trembled in his grasp, her soft whimpers turning to moans of sheer ecstasy.

Her velvet walls constricted around him and she slumped forward as if the energy had been sapped from her body. He took over their rhythm thrusting with each downward roll of her hips, lifting her slightly to bring her down hard and thrust again. The water sloshed and bubbled around them as she moved with him, still trembling, until he too reached the edge and tumbled over with a sharp gasp. He impaled her on him one last time, plunging deep inside her silken core, his release coming swift and strong. Burying his face between her breasts, he felt the mad thrumming of her heartbeats as both of them panted for purchase of breath.

Their bodies stilled as they clung to one another, reveling in the wondrous feel of flesh within flesh while the soft, heated water frothed against their tingling skin.

After a long moment, Christine slowly lifted her cheek from where she'd pressed it against the top of his head and moved her arms from their loose hold around his neck to cradle his jaw, her fingers resting against both sides of his face. Her eyes were drowsy, soft and warm.

"I think I could grow very accustomed to this secret," she said, her words slurring before her lips pressed against his in a languid, sleepy kiss.

He had already decided this would mark the first of many bathing experiences they would share, but her manner alarmed him and he too was feeling drowsy, with the effects of the heated silky water combined with the remaining embers of passion from their intimacy. He wrapped his fingers in her long, wet curls and gently pulled her away, breaking their kiss.

"As much as I would wish to linger in this wickedly delightful manner," he whispered, his mouth near hers. "I think our present course would be wisest to leave these waters."

"Mmm..." She loosely wound her arms at his shoulders and neck, crossing them at the wrists, and rocked her hips slowly from side to side and then in a little delicious roll against him. "Not yet …"

Helpless to refuse, he yielded to her wishes and her kiss. Once again her body slowly melted in a slump, as if she could no longer hold herself up. He pulled away from her lips. Her eyes remained closed, lightly fluttering.

"Christine." His own words came sluggish. "The last thing I would wish is to drown with my bride the day after our wedding."

He injected a shade of humor into his tone, but knew they could no longer remain. Their extended stay in the sultry heat of the water was overpowering both of them. He had never felt the extreme lassitude he did now when he'd partaken of the pool on previous occasions, only the relaxing warmth that eased away all physical ache, and felt the supplement of their intense lovemaking to be the cause.

"Come, my love …"

She offered no resistance, neither did she give any aid, as his hands slid beneath her legs and he lifted her off of him. A drowsy little sound of protest came from her lips when he broke their cozy and satisfying connection. But she dutifully opened her eyes after he climbed out, then took hold of both his wrists as he grabbed her slim ones and lifted her to help her do the same.

Stairs. He needed to make stairs for her to be able to enter and exit the pool without danger, in the event she ever wished to bathe in solitude. Since the spring lay in a cul-de-sac to the private corridor that originated only beyond the lake room, he never laid traps and the way would be safe for her.

By the time he helped her into her robe and slippers, he had become more alert, and as he led her by the hand back to the lake room, the chill air had reawakened him and his mind conceived a plan. Recalling her near tumble, he decided that marble within the water would be too slippery, as would any stone that did not abrade the soles of her feet. Wood seemed the safest choice, sanded so that she would not get a splinter but coarse enough to provide a grip. He did not know of any other substance that would work well, but perhaps could invent something of finer quality ….

They entered their bedchamber. Christine slipped her hand from his as she moved past and ahead of him then gracefully fell onto her back on their wide round bed and stretched her wet body with the lazy ease of a contented kitten. He had tied her robe loosely at the heated spring and the velvet was now in danger of sliding off her skin in the most intriguing places. Seeing his fixed attention, she blushed and smiled softly, lifting her hand to him in invitation.

The stairs could bloody well wait.

Unfastening his own robe, Erik moved to join her.

.

**xXx**

.

Antoinette Giry rubbed her temples with her fingertips, then rose from her desk to pour a glass of wine. She allowed herself one remedial glass in the evening. This was her second.

It had not been a rewarding two days.

Christine's absence had generated suspicion and ill feeling among the chorus, except for her understudy, Josette, who was thrilled to learn she would begin to take the stage. Antoinette told the cast only that their new diva would return the following week. To the disgruntled managers she had also explained that Christine attended to urgent family matters. In a sense it was true, her new husband determined to have her with him to the exclusion of all others.

Once again, Erik had put her in a difficult position, though after the restraint he suffered with regard to Christine in past years, especially in these last months, she did not fault him for his enthusiasm to spend a week in solitude with his new bride. She was not so old she couldn't remember the fevered desire to spend the days and nights in the sole company of her husband, especially in their first months of wedded bliss. However, the timing of Erik and Christine's nuptial relations couldn't have been worse, though she supposed _for_ _them_ it was most beneficial to be absent in the uncertain chaos that had arisen.

With the shocking turn of events this afternoon, she had no idea what the next day would bring. For the opera house. For all of Paris.

A step at the door alerted her to company. Weary with all of it, she took a long swallow of wine and turned – to see her evening was likely to get worse though she had not thought that possible. Before she snapped out a curt greeting at being disturbed during her all too brief respite, she just managed to remember her position and the position of the man who walked through the doorway.

"Vicomte, how may I be of service to you?" she asked, injecting a polite, servile tone to her words.

Never one to look less than dashing, his clothes impeccable, he appeared fraught with exhaustion, his eyes bleary as if he'd had little sleep. Lines of worry were etched between his brows, and his golden brown hair had lost its precise style, actually mussed, looking as if he'd run an agitated hand through it.

"I will come straight to the point, Madame Giry. I have just learned that Christine will not sing again tonight, but no one seems to know where she is. Is she ill?"

"Christine is in perfect health, I assure you. She will return to the opera next week."

"Return?" He studied her then quietly closed the door behind him and strode to the front of her desk, his manner determined. "Where is she?"

Madame hesitated, hardly able to tell their patron to mind his own affairs, at the same time not wanting to be disloyal to her maestro. "She is with family."

He narrowed his eyes. "She has no family. All she had was her father."

From Christine's admission, Antoinette knew that he and the girl shared a summer together as children, but she didn't know how much he truly knew about her former charge's life. "Cousins from her mother's side," she smoothly lied. "They recently found her."

He raised his brow in a mocking gesture of impatience she had long associated with Erik and she felt a little jolt at the similarity.

"Cousins. So, you are telling me that Christine has forfeited her lifelong dream, to sing as the lead in the opera – living out that dream for only one night – so she might visit with little-known cousins?"

She compressed her lips at how absurd her lie sounded on his tongue. "For one week only. An emergency, you understand."

"No, Madame, I don't understand at all. Forgive me if I don't believe you." He paced a few steps then turned. "She's with him, isn't she? Her teacher?"

Madame's silence was an answer in itself.

"And you _let her go?_"

"Christine is no longer a child. She makes her own decisions."

He ran a hand through his hair at her first words and scoffed at the last ones. "What manner of man is this _Phantom_?"

So, he knew that her teacher and the Phantom of the Opera were one in the same; that knowledge was by now old news to those in the theater, but the Vicomte seldom visited of late to hear any of the most recent news, though he'd attended on opening night.

"He is many things, monsieur. A genius, a composer, a magician ..."

"The last I have cause to believe. No one seems to recall seeing Christine after the interview she gave the reporters. She went into her dressing room and, according to two of your dancers, disappeared into thin air."

"I assure you, monsieur, she did not disappear. Nor would her teacher bring harm to her. He has been to her a protector since she came to live at the ballet dormitories."

"A protector?" he scoffed. "A fiend who haunts the opera house with an agenda and torments the managers hardly fits the depiction of a protector."

"Yet to her, he is exactly that."

"Are you aware, Madame, that Christine was not the only person to disappear from the theater on opening night?"

Antoinette regarded him in curious shock. All of her chorus was intact, as were the stagehands and the crew from what she had seen this morning ...

"Lord Rupert Dubois, a friend of my father's, also disappeared. He attended the opera but according to his servants never arrived home that night and has been missing ever since."

"Perhaps he was waylaid," she offered, "and went home with a friend, not thinking to inform his servants?"

"Or he ran across the path of a fiendish ghoul who made quick work of disposing with his body."

"I hardly think that is the case."

He braced his hands on her desk and leaned in closer. "Tell me, Madame, besides his tricks and taunts, is this Phantom capable of _excessive_ foul play, as in murder?"

His words sent a chill up her spine. The alarming memory of a battered child squeezing the life from his gypsy handler with a thick rope tightly held at his throat flashed across her mind. She shook her head to dispel the image. "Surely, you do not think that he …."

Her words trailed off and he answered for her.

"_That_ is precisely what I think. According to every member of your chorus, he is the only one who skulks about the theater, making threats to all who oppose him."

"But _never_ to those who attend the opera."

"Who's to say that cannot change? You call him a genius, but clearly he betrays signs of madness. Who's to say that the misfortunate Dubois did not come across the Phantom while he was in a foul temper and suffer another 'accident' as your crew is fond of labeling his atrocious schemes?"

"But – you speak of _murder!_"

"Yes." His answer came calm, his eyes deadly serious and she looked askance, at the papers on her desk.

That was the night Erik proposed to and married Christine. While he _had_ been agitated before the opera, fearful she might refuse him, his temper had not been foul. She doubted any devious scheme, especially murder, had been on his mind.

"Monsieur, forgive me, but is this your theory or the conclusions of the gendarme? Surely if they suspect someone within the theater, we would have heard from them by now?"

"They are looking into the matter, of course, but it is impossible to determine how long the investigation will take, in light of what has happened today …" He shrugged, his mind clearly distracted by the most recent news that had the whole theater quietly abuzz for the past two hours.

She understood without his need to elaborate. The opera would go on, the managers had decided, but so much else was in limbo. "And you, monsieur?" she asked softly. "Will you continue your patronage here?"

"Why would I not?"

She slightly lifted her hands, palms up, in a shrug. "With the soldiers leaving the barricades across the city and talk of a brewing revolution, it may be dangerous for you to remain in Paris, as you are a noble."

"This is my home." His blue eyes burned with resolve. "Here I will stay."

She nodded curtly; it was none of her business what he chose to do outside the theater.

"As to the matter of Christine …"

"I have told you all I know."

"All you choose to tell me would be a better way to phrase it. I know you work for him …"

At the pause to his words, she lifted her chin stubbornly, waiting for the rest of what he would say.

"… And I want you to arrange a meeting between us. I wish to meet this Phantom that has Christine so enthralled and the opera house in such upheaval."

She curbed an immediate refusal; as patron, he had every right to ask, though she did not feel it was for his interest in the theater alone that he made the directive. That he spoke of Christine before the opera made that clear. She struggled with what to say. "I will make your request known, monsieur, of course. But I cannot promise a favorable reply. He … does not socialize with others."

He regarded her with raised brows. "It was he who took Christine to the ball, was it not? I seem to recall a man dressed in red who made quite a stir among the guests. She was there with her teacher, this Phantom? If he can make an exception to attend the ball, he can meet with me."

Madame closed her eyes, silently cursing Erik for putting her in this position.

"She's with him now, I'll warrant. So if you don't want me to bring the gendarmes in to begin their own inquiries, I suggest you do what you must to guarantee that meeting comes to pass. I'm certain the chief inspector would be most interested to learn there were _two_ disappearances on opening night and that a madman who calls himself Phantom rules this theater and its managers under his iron thumb like a demented king!"

Madame squeezed the stem of her glass with such force she was surprised it didn't break. "I will deliver your message, Vicomte, when next I see him in a week's time."

He thought a moment then shook his head. "No. With the current unrest in the city, that's not good enough. I will meet with him before then. Outside of the opera house, better yet the outskirts of the city. Somewhere remote where we'll not be disturbed."

"Really, I cannot—"

"You have no choice."

"Very well." She drew herself up. "I will tell him."

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: I wasn't going to do an "outside" scene (outside of E & C in the lair) yet, but as I was writing, this last part just wrote itself in. haha. I have a strong sense of where this entire story will go ****– (I'd better!) ****– but once again, it seems determined to throw me a loop and travel a detour down its own trail****…we shall see where that trail takes us****… :) Comments or reviews most appreciated!**


	34. A New Game Will Begin

**A/N: Yes, I know- it's been forever- I'm so sorry. Besides all the thunderstorms and need for computer to be off during them, it's been a busy month****…Thank you so much for the reviews! :) APhan, it's actually March (first week)- the Bal Masque was at New Year's and it's been over a month that they've been seeing one another after the week or so he remained absent when he was upset- with him resuming teaching her, etc - Feb has 28 days- so I figure we're in the first week of March. (yes, I'm pretty sure it's what you think- but I did cut some things out historically- so, as JS told his crew and I'm telling you guys - this is a fantasy, not a documentary. So don't look for exact matches to historical events. **

**;-)) Oh- and I'm a May baby too. This week. :) - my birthday gift to you guys is to post - yours to me would be to comment or review. haha- (yes, I'm shameless at begging sometimes, but I don't do it often****…much****…)****…This chapter deserves an M rating (hope it makes up for the long wait)****… please forgive any mistakes- since my beta is really busy too, I only sent her the first third of chapter to look at- the part I was most uncertain about- and now ****…**

* * *

**Chapter XXXIV**

**A New Game Will Begin**

**.**

"Mmmm ..." Christine gave a sleepy murmur of delight at the touch of Erik's lips on her skin. He paid homage to the curve of her shoulder and along the side of her neck to her ear. As he nibbled, her arms wrapped around his back, keeping him close, her fingers pressing against the scarred ridges there. At the knowledge that she had awakened from her slumber, his affections grew more insistent and widespread, until they were both panting for breath and she begged him to take her.

Cradling her head with one hand, lifting her thigh around him with the other, he slid deeply inside her; their bodies connecting, their sighs of pleasure coming as one. His lips found hers again. Her fingers wove through his hair, her other hand trailing down his back, her soft moans testimony to her ever-rising passion.

At first Erik thought the steady moist sounds were a result of their kisses and their joining. So lost was he in his beautiful wife that it did not at first register that those sounds did not always coincide with their lovemaking. A lifetime of the vital need to be ever cautious to danger of discovery sieved through the fog of passion drugging his mind. He plunged once more, burying himself inside her warm core, then grew very still, lifting his lips from hers.

"Erik?" she whispered in confusion, looking up at him through passion-drowsy lids.

"Shh," he answered softly, shaking his head a little in emphasis for her to be silent.

The suckling sounds continued, louder now, coming nearer. Slaps against water in the distance, an oar slicing through the lake.

It could mean only one thing.

"I'll kill her," he whispered through clenched teeth and in that moment, he meant it.

Christine blinked. "Madame?"

"Who else?" No alarm had gone off. Only she knew the trick to prevent it, unless she'd come another way, one more difficult to find, one he had shown no one though Christine had discovered it. She _had_ to have come that way to find his boat!

"But ..." Christine shook her head on the pillow. "Why would she ..." She paused in an attempt to control her heavy breathing. "Surely, if it is Madame ... and she has come here ... she must have good reason."

"It damn well better be exceptional ... Though the only exception I might tolerate is if the opera house has crashed down around her ears."

The sounds died away.

"Perhaps it was something else we heard and not Madame ... a rodent swimming in the water? A fish ...?"

He did not air his doubt at her suggestion though he also strongly wished to believe it. He wanted nothing to disturb this perfect moment.

"It must have been only a fish ... or some other lake creature." Christine pulled at her bottom lip with her teeth in an uncertain, hopeful way both innocent and sultry and he groaned at the delectable sight and feel of her, again covering her mouth with his, the threat of an intruder all but forgotten. Her hold tightened around him and he resumed moving inside her velvet warmth, his lips trailing to her shoulder. She tilted her head back against the pillow, her eyes closed as she softly moaned in utter delight.

"Maestro, are you there?" Madame Giry's voice came from the portcullis. "I must speak with you on a matter most urgent."

"Damn her thrice to the fieriest pit of Hades and back," he seethed, again anchoring himself deep inside Christine then growing still.

She tightened her hands around his shoulders, the muscles of her thighs instinctively tightening around his hips, clearly not wishing to relinquish the moment, and Erik was sorely tempted to continue their passionate intimacy to their ultimate satisfaction and let the intrusive Antoinette Giry wait. Thank all the powers that reigned that he'd had the foresight to close the portcullis earlier. But no doors stood between the bedchamber and the lake room, privacy not imperative when he'd fashioned his home. He never planned for an occurrence of this sort! Unfortunately, the bedchamber and bed could be seen from the gate if one chose to look closely enough, and he wanted no accidental voyeur to watch the private moments he shared with his bride. Nor did he think she would wish to be on exhibit to prying eyes.

"I suppose you should let her in," Christine whispered reluctantly, never loosening her hold on him. "I don't think she's going away after having come so far. She must have something very important to share."

He grimaced; nothing could be important enough to interfere with making love to his wife, but he nodded and slowly pulled away. She gave a little remorseful sound at the back of her throat as their union was lost, and his palm cupped her cheek as he dipped his lips to hers in a brief kiss before throwing himself in a roll on the other side of the bed, so that he was shielded from view of the gate.

He snatched up his robe and snapped the edges around himself, briskly tying the sash in a knot. Christine's head remained on the pillow, her face flushed, her passion-dark eyes wide with a mix of shock and need as they fastened to the apex of his legs. He looked down and saw the velvet material poking straight up and forming a tent.

Damn the infernal, meddlesome woman awaiting entrance to his lair! Nothing, NOTHING could warrant this interruption! He pulled on his breeches and laced them against his hardness. Just looking at his wife lying naked in their rumpled bedding, her skin glistening, her spirals of long curls a mad tumble all around her made it worse, but the breeches helped to disguise what Madame had interrupted; the robe did the rest.

"Stay here," he softly told Christine before charging out of his bedroom and down the stairs toward the lever which he pulled upward with a vicious yank. The gate rose. Antoinette stared.

"Damn you!" He started in before she'd brought the boat to shore. "I told you not to come down here under _any circumstances_, that I wanted _no_ _interruptions_! Can you not even get that simple instruction right?"

She did not answer but brought the bow of his boat near the rock and used the oar to help her alight since he offered no aid. He marched closer, pointing his finger at her.

"Was it not enough that you almost destroyed all I worked so hard to gain by giving the ignorant fools who so badly attempt to run this theater the wrong opera? Now must you disrupt the most sublime moments of my miserable existence by interfering where you're not wanted? If you cannot follow orders perhaps I would do better to wash my hands of you."

Still she did not respond, only stared, motionless.

It was then Erik remembered.

_His mask!_

**_Damn her!_**

He swung away, clapping his hand to his bare skin. In the madness of his disrupted passion with Christine, he'd forgotten the one thing most vital to don in covering himself. Frantically his mind sought for where he last remembered having the black silk - his most recent mask to wear - which required only seconds to slip around his head with a leather band, as opposed to other masks, which took minutes to prepare in applying paste. He had left the silk covering in the kitchen when he prepared the meal on the day after they were wed.

Hurriedly he moved to that area of the lair. Antoinette's hard soles rang on the stones behind him.

"Maestro ... _Erik_," she tried again more forcefully when he gave no sign of heeding her. "I must speak with you."

The damned mask wasn't on the table. He ducked his head to look beneath it.

"I hardly think you would wish to discharge me at this time, though to do so would imply that I receive payment for services rendered - which we both know is not the case. I have served you out of a sense of duty and friendship."

He swung around to face her, never lowering his hand from the side of his face. "_Friendship?_"

"Yes - _friendship**!**_"

"Friendship is not the same as fear!" he growled.

"Are we to return to that same tune again? I told you I do not fear you!"

"You LIE, woman!"

Her nostrils flared in restrained temper but she did not move. "Yes, Erik, I **_have_** lied - for you! Again and Again. **_For you!_** Out of loyalty, out of the desire to see you happy! If that is not friendship then tell me what is?"

Stunned by her admission he shook his head, making it clear he would hear no more of such nonsense. He had not forgotten that day ten years ago, the day before he left for Persia, and there were other occasions since his return when he had seen terror in her eyes ... Oh, he had not forgotten her excuses for her terrified behavior that led to his running away; weeks ago when she had confessed he was willing to pardon and forget. But this damnable intrusion on his privacy when he had ordered her to remain distant was unforgivable. And because of her failure to heed his demands she had again seen him in his most wretched state.

He hastened to walk around her in search of a mask - _any_ damn mask! Even one on a stick would suffice. Where the hell were they? He could not locate a bloody one. Suddenly he straightened and looked toward the bedchamber, enlightenment causing him to narrow his eyes.

_Christine._

"I could easily walk away," Madame continued, again approaching him. "I could begin to know some morsel of sanity again, whatever is left to be had in this manic opera. But I choose to help you instead. And _again_ I have lied for you, monsieur. To all those who work in the theater, to those who _do_ pay me a salary, and most recently to the Vicomte."

The _Vicomte_.

At the loathsome name she so casually uttered he pushed aside his rising suspicions of his masks' convenient disappearance, and his breath rushed out in a maddened snort. He searched through the tidied clutter on a table where he had last put the white half mask, intending to hold it to his face the entire time she remained if he must, but again came up empty. With a vicious swipe of his arm in enraged frustration he cleared the table of all objects. Books, statuettes, papers and assorted paraphernalia hit the stones, some splashing into the lake.

He swung around and threw his arms out to the sides. "**_Why are you even here?_**"

She lifted her chin. To his curious shock, triumph gleamed in her eyes. Eyes that did not flinch but looked at both sides of his face without wavering.

Bloody hell! Again, he'd forgotten!

She grabbed his arm with both hands before he could slap his hand back to cover his deformity. He could easily break from her hold, no matter that it was stronger than her petite frame led one to believe, but the sight of her peering so intently at his damaged face drained his fury and besieged his emotions, making him go weak inside. Not like the outcast, wounded boy who'd flown into a rage at her profound horror to see him unmasked. But now as a man, who'd had his defenses flayed by love, the love of his Angel, who in giving him every bit of her acceptance somehow had robbed him of the ability to strike when necessary; he could scarce summon the immediate need to move!

He didn't know whether to weep or to scream.

Damn this wretched vulnerability, he would no longer have any part of it! Before he could wrench his arm away and retreat, she spoke.

"I honestly had no wish to intrude but was given no choice. I did wait until after the noon hour, but matters being what they are, I could tarry no longer. I came to warn you, Erik. There are events going on above of which you need to be made aware and especially before Christine's return to the theater in four days."

His mind absorbed the startling fact that she stared at his face in close proximity and gave no adverse reaction. His thoughts were alert enough to register that the fear ringing in her low tone had nothing to do with him.

Taken aback by the knowledge, he quietly slipped out of her grasp and turned sideways, keeping his profile to her and his deformity from view. He struggled to think, to piece words together to commence with whatever she would say.

"Very well then. Speak."

"First, you must know, the soldiers have retreated from outside the walls of the city. For no reason any of us understand. There was no blood shed - the entire incident was accomplished in a most peaceful manner, the people actually _fraternizing_ with the enemy from what we were told."

He raised his brows in mild curiosity that the French would consort with their Prussian tormentors but crossed his arms over his chest. "That still does not explain your untimely presence to my chambers. Such news could have waited four days."

"That is not what brought me here. With no power to govern the city at this time, there is talk of a revolution brewing."

"Again, I do not see what that has to do with -"

"Naturally, with such uncertainty and unrest, anyone who bears a title could have strong cause to fear retribution if the Commune should come into power."

He slightly turned his head, narrowing his eyes. Surely, she could not know his wretched secret. He had shared it only with Christine ...

"Because of this, the Vicomte ordered me to approach you with his request to meet with you outside the city gates."

His mouth thinned in a rigid line. "Absolutely not."

"Request was too mild a word perhaps. He has ordered it of you. He will not take no for an answer."

"Ordered it? Of _me?_" he scoffed in laughing disbelief. "Well, the spoiled ignoramus better damn well learn to accept defeat."

"He has threatened to bring in the gendarmes ..."

"I do not fear his pathetic threats."

"He is concerned for Christine's welfare and will not rest until he finds her."

"**_Damn the insufferable fool!"_** Erik slammed the flat of his hand on the table and whirled toward her. "She belongs **_to me_**! Not that insipid boy! What did you tell the wretch?"

"That she is away, visiting cousins. An emergency. He did not believe me."

"Small wonder that he wouldn't. You gave the exact excuse last time, mere weeks ago! And you honestly think they would believe she would do such an idiotic thing _on her debut of becoming a star_?"

She scowled at him. "What would you have had me do? I couldn't very well say that she married the Phantom of the Opera and was living in his care for a week! I have no trove of lies waiting to be used for such a purpose!"

He held up a hand for silence. The last thing he wanted or needed was for Christine to hear their raised voices.

"Is that all you came to say?" He forced a quieter tone.

"All?" She regarded him in disbelief. "Is that not enough?"

He waved his hand as if the situation were an annoying bug to be swatted and disposed of. "I will deal with the matter."

She hesitated, clearly ill at ease. "There _is_ one last thing. The Vicomte suspects you of foul play involving a family friend. Lord Dubois."

"Does he now …" Erik's words came expressionless. "How surprising."

"Tell me … tell me you did nothing to this man." She moved a step closer. "He disappeared from the opera house after the gala, according to what the Vicomte told me. Tell me that you were not responsible for this."

"Not that it is any of your affair what I did or did not do, but I had more important issues on my mind that evening."

She nodded in relief. "Yes, that is what I thought. He thinks Lord Dubois was murdered. And he suspects you. That is another reason he wishes to bring in the gendarmes, to search for you and Christine."

He slammed his fist down near his side. "I am getting damnably weary of what that posturing Vicomte wishes. It is time to put an end to his wretched interference."

She grabbed his arm. "What will you do?"

He looked at her hand on his sleeve in impatience then wrenched his arm away. "Why should you care what plans I have for the irksome gnat?"

"I want no man's injury or death on my conscience. I beg you, don't do anything rash. It will only make matters worse than they already are if his blood is spilt too."

"His blood spilt? Hmm." He nodded as if just considering the idea for the first time. "While the thought of wrapping a rope around the meddlesome boy's neck does bring a sense of the most supreme pleasure, perhaps instead I will tie only his hands - or give the ignorant fool enough rope to hang himself."

Once more he lifted his hand to his face and turned to look at her, his choice of words deliberate. He saw by her wince that she recalled the night he had strangled his jailer - while she had stood by and watched.

"You did nothing then," he said softly, "you will do nothing now."

She glanced at the stones, her brow troubled, before looking at him again. "Then you do intend to kill him?"

"Kill him?" He regarded her in mock horror. "Antoinette, how your mind does remain fixed on one solution! Perhaps I should take that as a sign - that Fate has decreed it as the most expedient course of action to end our current woes."

She lifted her chin at his cynical amusement. "If I speak so it is only because I know you better than you think." She paused as though wondering if she should continue. "What do you mean to do about him?"

Weary of the conversation and impatient to be rid of her, he shook his head. "I have not yet decided." The problem of the Vicomte would take careful consideration; if he were to cause harm to the idiot boy, Christine would never forgive him. Erik knew that well enough from their previous discussions. But neither would he risk his happiness with his bride and do nothing at all. On one matter, he had decided.

"Say nothing to Christine of the news you have brought me."

"You mean to keep her in the dark concerning this?" She blinked in uncertainty. "Is that wise?"

"I will tell her all that I wish her to know."

.

**xXx**

.

"Christine!"

Christine had just left the privy chamber and moved into their bedroom when she heard Erik's summons.

"One moment, my love," she called back, wondering what tidings Madame brought to make his voice sound so tense. She thought it odd that he would call out for her, since he usually came to whatever room she was in when he wanted something.

Securing her sash more firmly around her robe, she exited the chamber.

Erik stood with his back to her, facing the wall. Madame stood near him, seeming disturbed. Upon seeing Christine descend the stairs she gave her a smile.

"Hello, my dear. You look well."

"Madame."

Christine felt her skin flush hotly beneath her former ballet mistress's assessing gaze. Her appearance disheveled, her hair loose and wild, and her state of undress spoke their own collective message. Certainly Madame, having been married, must know what had taken place inside the bedchamber. Now that she was also a married woman Christine supposed she shouldn't feel embarrassed, but she also had never planned to greet company less than fully dressed. Yet with the situation being what it was and Erik in a foul temper, she hadn't wished to tarry to take the time to make herself presentable.

Erik turned with his hand over the right side of his face as she drew close. She hoped it was only habit that had him do so and that he still didn't feel inhibited to have her see him without his mask. She felt relieved that the eye she could see grew gentler as he looked upon her. Whatever upset him so, she was not the cause.

"My dear," he pulled out the chair beside the table of his mini stage. "I need you to compose a letter."

"A letter?" Christine hesitated in surprise before taking a seat.

"It would seem that there's been some concern over your disappearance. Antoinette's explanation of your visit to relations did not satisfy …" His tone led her to believe it did not satisfy him either, "So another course must be taken."

She nodded, assuming he referred to the managers and picked up the pen, dipping it in a bottle of black ink as Erik laid out a piece of parchment before her. "To whom shall I address it?"

"To Madame Giry," he answered and she looked up in surprise. Madame also looked at him in question. "You are to express your regret for having to leave so suddenly, along with your reassurances that you will return next week. Be brief but leave no doubt that you are where you should be and you are well."

She smiled at him. "And should I tell her what a lovely time I'm having?"

His lips flickered at the corners. "No. The note is to look as if it is coming from your cousins' residence, where you were called away due to a crisis. It is to reassure the interloper that I have not abducted you and you left of your own free will."

"Oh." Her smile faded in disappointment. Clearly he did not plan to inform the managers of their nuptials, as she had hoped he would. Despite his concerns of how it may affect her new career, she wanted everyone to know that her beloved husband was the Phantom of the Opera. She considered the situation. Perhaps he waited, wishing to approach the managers and speak in private words that couldn't be expressed in one of his infamous notes.

She put pen to paper then stopped and looked up again, recalling exactly what he'd said. "Interloper?" In the singular, not the plural.

He pressed his lips together and loudly exhaled through his nostrils, like a dragon snorting fire. She was almost surprised to see no flames burst forth.

Those burned in his eyes.

"The Vicomte has issued a threat to send out the gendarmes, assuming you to be in grave danger. He knows I am your teacher and believes I abducted you after the opera's conclusion."

Frustration made her speak without thinking. "Can I not simply write a note to him, telling him of our marriage and that I am well and happy and he must desist in looking for me?"

His expression remotely softened at her adamant request. "That would not suppress his conviction that I have brought you to harm. He would only think that you wrote the note under duress."

"Very well." Christine put her mind to writing the letter, filling half the page and adding her felicitations to Meg at the end. She handed the paper to Erik.

He glanced over it, quickly reading through, and gave her a satisfied half smile before folding the note and stuffing it into a plain envelope he had not yet painted with his black O.G. border. Melting wax from an ivory candle, he poured a small dollop on the flap to cool and harden. He worked swiftly and in the span of surely no more than a minute lifted his hand back to his face and turned to Madame Giry.

"That should keep the hounds at bay," he said dryly, handing the sealed envelope to her.

She continued to look at him. He returned her stare.

"Was there nothing else you wish to say, Monsieur?"

Christine was sure she didn't mistake the silent interaction going on between Madame and her husband. Madame seemed quizzical, as if awaiting something she expected while Erik looked at her and frowned in warning.

"There is nothing more that needs to be said."

Madame sighed. "As you wish. Then I will take my leave. Christine..." She nodded toward her with a parting smile. "I will see you in four days' time."

"Give Meg my love."

Madame hesitated. "It is better that she not be told about my visit here," she said in apology. "The fewer in the theater who know what has transpired, the better for everyone. Only those involved should be made aware of _all_ the details."

Erik gave no reply, turning his back to them both.

Puzzled, Christine again sensed the charged interplay between her complicated maestro and the ballet headmistress. As she watched the boat depart and Erik lower the portcullis then close the thick curtains over it, she silently questioned Madame's objections. If Raoul was making a huge issue of Christine's disappearance, wouldn't Meg already know of his intentions? She imagined he would have questioned the entire company. Would it not set Meg's mind at ease to know that Erik and Christine had taken care of the matter and no gendarmes would hunt for and possibly find one of the secret entrances to their underground home? If _she_ could locate one of them, surely men trained in the field would have the experience to know what to look for.

She wondered how many existed and turned to ask Erik, also intending to question him about what Madame withheld. She was certain there was much more that had been said between them.

His eyes seared into her, a deep stormy green, his manner now grave.

God help her, she knew that look.

"Erik …?"

"Where have you hidden my masks, little Pandora?"

His tone came quiet and calm, as smooth as flowing silk. But the implication of that one word "hidden" and the dratted nickname she was sorely beginning to abhor sent a nervous little shudder of indignation down Christine's spine.

Straightening her backbone, she determinedly lifted her chin, and prepared to go toe-to-toe with her dark angel.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Hope you guys liked. :) Take a few seconds to drop me a line and let me know? (Yes, yes, this shameless begging must stop. I'll try and behave next chapter. ;-)) ****… Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday dear me-eeeee (and A-Phannnn) Happy birthday to us! ;-)**

**Yes, I'm a nuuutttt ****….. (to the tune of "and many more****…")**


	35. Of Riddles

**A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews and birthday wishes too! :D A HUGE thanks to my patient and ever so wonderful beta, nightsmusic - your input is the best!**

**And now****…**

* * *

**Chapter XXXV**

**Of Riddles ****…**

.

The storm brewing in Erik's gray-green eyes was not powerful enough to douse the fire of hurt resentment slowly building inside Christine. They stared at one another across the short expanse of rock shore between them - Erik tall, unyielding, and clearly waiting for her answer. Christine just as determined to give it but loath to quarrel.

By his manner, she would be given no choice.

She balled her fists by her sides and struggled to keep her voice soft and controlled. "I did not hide your masks."

"No?" He gracefully swept his hand toward the table where she had just penned the letter. "You expect me to believe they evaporated into thin air? Disintegrated in the mist from the lake perhaps?"

She ignored his cutting cynicism. "I did not _hide_ them. I … put them away."

"Put them away," he repeated in ponderous speculation, arching his brow. "Do explain yourself, my dear."

She took in a deep breath to steady her nerves. "Yesterday, when you went off to do whatever it was you were doing for that long time you were absent I attempted to straighten some of the clutter. It's my home now, too, and I didn't think you would mind if I tidied things."

"So naturally, your first item to 'tidy' would be my masks?"

Christine compressed her lips. "It was a place to start."

She had never owned anything but her cot and her small box of personal items beneath it. Madame had been stern that her girls keep tidy dormitories. Christine had never seen such chaos as she had in Erik's lair, except perhaps backstage in the frenzy of rapid costume changes. Even then, there had been a careless sort of order to where things were tossed or a servant nearby to clean up the clutter. Erik had squirreled away from the opera numerous odd and sundry items piled onto every available space, often on top of each other - above on shelves, around on tables, beneath in boxes. It was a wonder he knew where to locate any given item when needed!

"You have not answered me." His tone came low. Resonant. Cold. "If you did not hide my masks, where did you put them, Christine?"

"I _didn't_ hide them," she repeated a third time between clenched teeth.

She tried to show no offense as she moved toward the mini theater, where he stood so impressive, newly roused from bed with his hair wildly mussed, his robe half parted - yet still bearing the elegant grandeur of a mythical king.

"They're right beside you, well within easy reach." She squatted down and lifted the edge of crimson and gold tapestry that draped over the table and hung to the floor, then reached for the box beneath it. She slid what had been a former wine crate over the stones and looked up at him. "See, it is as I told you. All of the masks are here, present and accounted for."

Her face flushed hot at the steady look he gave her and she averted her attention to the masks.

"They weren't _hidden_," she insisted, realizing how it appeared. "I thought it better to keep them collected in one place AND out of the way, so as not to stub my toes on the box - which I did with one of those boxes over there." She carelessly pointed to the opposite side of the chamber. "Which is where I found this box to use." In her flustered state she realized she was sounding and acting more and more like a defensive child. She shoved the box back beneath the table and swiftly rose to her feet. "Why would you think I would _hide them_ from you, Erik? For what possible reason would I do such a thing?"

"I wonder …" He crossed his arms over his unyielding chest.

She looked into his grave eyes, reading there the memory of how she attempted to do that very thing with his silk mask after they made love once before - but that had been entirely different. Nor had she actually gone through with the act!

"Do you truly think I would keep your masks from you?" she blurted to cover her embarrassment. "I fully intended to tell you where they were before we went above again."

"Did you?"

"Of course!" She gaped at the disbelief that narrowed his eyes. His reaction only made her angrier. "You _don't_ _believe me!_ Why - why would I ever omit such a thing, Erik? Tell me that!"

"You have told me that you prefer me without a mask."

"Yes, I don't deny that. When we're alone, here, together - it, it gets in the way at times. As I've also told you. But I _do_ understand your need to wear one above because of the foolish behavior of those who live in this theater. Did I not make my feelings clear in the chapel on the night you first showed me your face? I told you then I would never try to prevent you from wearing a mask if that is what you wished." She softened her tone. "I know you don't feel comfortable otherwise. That you feel the need to wear one, especially around others."

"Madame Giry, for instance?"

She flinched at his wry, acerbic words. No matter how softly delivered, she felt an instant needle prick of guilt that she quickly tried to assuage. "That is hardly fair. I had no idea she was coming here today. How could I? But - surely that wasn't a problem? Has she never seen you without a mask in all the years you've known her and she has served you?" She asked the question, certain of his answer. She must have seen him at some point!

"Before this day, she has glimpsed this wretched face twice," he said in a low, emotionless tone. "Once, when I murdered the gypsy who caged me as a boy. Once, thirteen years ago, when she betrayed me. And now, today."

Surprised by his admission, she winced at the knowledge. "Betrayed you?"

She studied him in question but he only stared at her coldly, as if …

As if he didn't trust her.

And that cut more deeply than when he viciously swore at her and called her names.

Those barbed acts he had done in an outburst of wounded pride and angry passion, his emotions uncontrolled. The still, stone visage of the man standing before her appeared cold and rational and … so damnably distant. This man, she was never sure how to approach and almost wished for him to go into one of his familiar rages, knocking things over, yelling, and cursing all who resided in the theater - almost felt tempted to _provoke_ such an outburst to put herself on more easy footing. He had never physically harmed her and never would, of that she was certain. At least once the storm of his frenzy passed, he would then calm and be more receptive to heed her explanations, even if he wasn't amenable to what she would say.

Christine questioned her dubious logic. She should be _grateful_ he wasn't giving in to his explosive fury - not dismayed by its absence! And yet, when he gave outlet to his frenzied emotions he released them and moved on. When he contained them to simmer inside, they fermented into bitter poison that ate away at his soul. Had he not done the same with those wretched masks? The secret that haunted, the anguish he had kept buried inside - building all of it into something so dark and terrible and huge that when in a fit of rage he did finally reveal to her what lay behind the black silk, his long-held fear worked like an acid that very nearly destroyed him. She had seen. She had been there!

After all they had been through together, all they had said to one another - _the love_ she showered on him - after these past three days and three nights of shared bliss - _how could **he think**_ she would willfully do anything to hurt him? How could he stand there so still and silent and formidable, the accusation _that **she would**_ a living, breathing thing in his eyes? The words he did not speak flayed her soul and she swallowed back her pain.

"When you left the bedchamber you weren't wearing a mask," she continued quietly when she realized he would give no explanation to his inference of Madame's alleged betrayal. "You _chose_ to see her without one."

"Chose? Oh no, my dear. Upon realizing my error, I swiftly attempted to rectify the matter. Without success, though I cannot conceive a reason. For, as you have told me, the masks were well within easy reach." He gestured to the table and the tapestry that once more brushed the floor and concealed the box.

She bristled under his unending sarcasm and wretched condescension.

"Alright! You have made your point. You need not be so cruel or look at me so high and loftily. It may _look_ as if they were hidden but that wasn't my intent! I was trying to be helpful. I failed. I apologize. I don't know what it is you would have me say?"

He regarded her distantly, his lips pulling into a thin line. "Never again touch my masks, Christine."

"No, I assure you, I have well learned my lesson." Hot tears pricked her eyes and she felt a sudden need to justify her actions. "Only tell me this, _my Phantom husband_, have you looked at your face of late?"

He snorted in disdain. "Why should I wish to self inflict such misery? I keep the mirrors covered for a reason, _dear wife_."

Lifting her chin high, she gave a tight, brief nod. "Perhaps, for once then, you should look." Turning on her heel, she walked from him at a brisk pace.

"Where are you going?" His curt demand came from behind where he remained standing.

"To the pool to bathe." She grabbed the torch from the wall and sent a scathing glance over her shoulder. "_Alone_."

Heavy of heart and no longer willing to duel with sharp, clipped words that cut to the soul, she half hoped after delivering her equally icy rejoinder that he would ignore what she said and come up behind her. Take her in his arms and hold her. Forgive, and ask to join her …

She should have known better than to believe the most iniquitous Phantom of the Opera would be the first to offer a ceasefire. And she felt too hurt and upset to cross that line.

.

**xXx**

.

Erik watched Christine go, barely keeping a tight rein on his anger. Her slight figure disappeared from view, the blaze of her torch waning to a faint glimmer.

He whirled around and seized the edge of the table, only just preventing himself from upending the whole blasted thing. Squeezing the rim, he welcomed the feel of the sharp cornered edges piercing into his skin.

The act of patience was not something he knew how to practice well, his tenure in its venue short, and it had taken what little control he possessed not to lash out at her and fly into another fitful rage. Her pathetic excuses held no ring of truth when matched with the guilt that had clouded her wide, expressive eyes. Her fair skin had flushed in shame, her explanations infantile in the extreme.

His own forgetfulness had been the initial cause of today's disaster, but she could have damn well told him what she'd done. After he returned to her yesterday, there had been an abundance of opportunities to tell him the location of his masks.

So why the hell hadn't she done so?

He violently pushed away from the table, jarring its contents, and crouched down to haul the wooden box from beneath. He glared at the diverse masks contained within - of leather, porcelain, and silk - all created to fool himself and others into the illusory belief that he was no monster. He pulled the black silk out. Why had he not kept this with him on hand, at all times? This was not the first Antoinette Giry had come unannounced and taken him by surprise. It was just as much his fault as Christine's for being unprepared, he knew that …

But she should have told him.

_"Damn the whole lot of them!"_

Scowling, he gave the box a violent shove to its new resting place and swiftly stood to his feet.

God, he did not want to think ill of his Angel! He LOVED her, desperately wished to please her in all matters within his capacity to grant - the sole reason he had not resumed wearing a mask was to indulge _her_ in her bizarre wish for him to be without one.

He kept the mirrors in his lair concealed beneath thick tapestries, unable to stand the sight of himself, even with a mask, since that covering served as a reminder of the blight visited upon his person. While looking at his image, he felt he could see through the mask to the affliction beneath. And it sickened him. Why he'd collected so many of the damnable tall mirrors could be attributed to a sadistic tendency to remind himself at every turn why he would always live a life shunned and feared…

The great irony being that he'd chosen a mirror door to first appear to his Angel, thus reinventing his image into what he wanted her to see.

He snorted in wretched amusement.

Not that his masquerade had been a triumph. What he intended to last a lifetime crumbled away in mere hours…and she had regarded him without horror or disgust - then and now- accepting the entirety of who he was - even when he could not, even when in that one respect he agreed with the masses, fools though they were.

Erik sighed in weary perception. For all her foolish, naïve blunders his Angel did not deserve his wrath, as did the pathetic incompetents who lived above his head, or those accursed fiends of his past whose sole purpose in unmasking him had been to degrade and abuse him. Christine never looked upon him with anything but respect and love.

But how in the name of God was he to **_trust _**her? As she desired. As he wanted - _God how he wanted to trust his Angel!_

He bowed his head in bleak despair, the memory of the shadow world relentless in its cruel prompting to take him back to that damnably wretched moment …would he never be allowed to forget the sight of her petite hand tearing away his mask in front of the multitudes at the opera? Was this to be his eternal penance for harboring the desire to strike out!

Had she been angry? Did she wish to punish? Did she so despise him at that moment that she wanted to see him shot by gendarmes who then aimed their guns his way? That did not sound like his Christine, even with her ever-increasing bold and fiery nature. She was not vindictive or heartless...

A horrific possibility intruded into the whirlwind of his black thoughts.

His eyes grew wide as he stared inside the replica of the stage at two miniature dolls he'd carved that depicted them both, one masked, the other standing close with a blood red rose in her hair.

Dear God! - had she learned of Persia, her great love for him having then been shattered into an even greater hatred once she saw him for the monster he'd been and learned of the many he'd slain? Yet what possible threat could that buried skeleton pose in the emergence of these hours of things to come?

He would never tell her. Should a nightmare revisit, he could explain it away.

But if she truly _had_ come to despise him, if it was as he feared, then why, **_why_** had she later kissed him, here, in this very room with such desperate passion - a passion he now had been granted the privilege to know - and kissed him not once, but repeatedly…? Had she done it for the boy's sake?

From Erik's memory of experiencing her first actual kiss to him, one kiss would have been enough to disarm him in motive and deed. The shadow of herself had looked deeply into his eyes; she would have known this! A second, then third kiss would have not been necessary to free them, if that was what she had been trying to accomplish.

He shook his head at the utter hopelessness of trying to find solid motives to ghostly actions...

A host of future riddles, all without solutions. A cavern of bygone secrets never coming to light. This was the crux of his present struggles -

And certain fuel for driving himself to madness.

He sank to his chair by the miniature stage and miserably fingered the black, decayed rose from her grave that he kept there as a reminder never again to leap into the abyss of wounded vengeance. Catching sight of his small standing mirror he used both to shave and apply his masks he recalled her parting words to him…

…With a low disgusted growl, he gave up his fight not to succumb and brought the mirror close. Whipping off the cloth that covered the reflective disc he steeled himself for the horrific sight and stared, then brought the image closer.

The faded scarlet patches beneath his eye had dulled almost to the natural color of skin and the usual irritating overall appearance of rawness had decreased if not disappeared altogether. Undoubtedly the change was due to dispensing with the masks these three days past and this was Christine's way of establishing a point. Yet the wretched defect that penalized his existence was still there - would ALWAYS be there! And the ever present need to shield himself from a condemning world had not diminished just because a smattering of the redness had ebbed.

Did she believe **_this_** a worthy reason for change?

She had told him it was irrelevant if he wore the masks or not, yet with her every action she demonstrated that it mattered a great deal. Was she sincere in her claim, or did she wish secretly to convince him to dispose completely of the masks?

Perhaps with a plan to take matters into her own hands …

Literally.

With a fierce curse, he shoved the mirror aside, wishing to do the same with the persistent echo of such wretched thoughts, and stared hard at the two miniature dolls.

He had never revealed her part in the damnable opera, withholding from her that one gargantuan snippet of his nightmare visit. Even if he did tell her - how could she honestly reply? He could not expect her to provide an unattainable explanation for what she had not yet done! Nor did he wish even to plant the germ of the idea in her mind, since she had removed his masks in verity - three times now. Twice from his face and once from his sight.

He presumed her act of "tidying" to be guileless; he did not believe she stowed the box and withheld her act to hurt him. But he sensed this was only the first step in what surely must come, whether that dreaded future moment be guileless or not.

He had discovered no solution to evade the damnable future shadows, and though he desperately wished to prevent it, he could not hope for the exclusion of what he most feared - her ultimate betrayal.

_She betrayed you __…_

_And you destroyed her__…_

He lowered his head, clutching it with both hands, wishing to drown out the voice of doom that persisted.

Marrying his Angel had been his _one_ faultless decision, his _one _exquisite, perfect moment after years of endless misery, these past days the closest he could hope to attaining heaven. He would **_never_** regret their union.

He desperately thought of the immense love she had shown him just in these last three days and nights, thought of all she had said, all she had vowed, all she had done …

_Betrayal._

"No. Damn it - NO! She will **NOT** betray me! _Do you hear me spirits of death?_ _She will **NOT!**"_

He lunged to his feet and stormed up the stairs, the chilling memories of hate that tortured his mind at fierce war with the frantic beats of love driving his heart.

"If such a hellish future shadow were to have its way, if it must damn well happen to pacify the powers that order the universe - then it will **not** come by her deliberate will but by..."

...accident.

He snorted in derision at his pathetic justification to absolve her. How could that crushing moment ever be misconstrued as an accident, unless compared to his fiendish "accidents" over the years that were no accidents at all?

And yet, despite it all, one verity remained. Would _never_ alter.

The spirits had told him he must make a choice. He had made the choice, binding her to him for life. Regardless of all he'd been shown, he _had_ taken Christine as his - _she belonged to him_ - and he could not bear even the mere thought of living without her! He had hoped that by dispensing with his plan for vengeance against the opera it would be enough, but apparently that was not to be …

And again he would be forced to choose.

If the shadows were to be believed, if the warped re-emergence of their reality in this present existence _were_ a sign and the wretched spirits must have their damnable conclusion - then yes, she would destroy him. Whether her act be deliberate or involuntary, he would perish in dark solitude. Worse, she would become like a ghost and go mad, the unintended sacrifice, the gentle breath of her life extinguishing much too soon …

God- **_THAT_**_ tragedy, he could never allow to happen!_

Never mind that she had married him and not the pathetic boy. Never mind that he would no longer abduct her. The ill-fated shadows would find a way to execute their twisted tragedies, as they had done before.

On the rooftop …

With the damned opera …

Despite the anguish he would suffer if his Angel proved disloyal, he loved her to the point of madness - even while knowing his death could come by her hand. If it came to a choice between his destruction or hers, he would kiss that pale hand and surrender himself to capture and the likelihood of execution, all so that she might dwell in peace and know sanity … _that she_ _would_ _live at all! _

The blinding light of revelation came more intensely than any dark fact or vaporous illusion the former Opera Ghost and previous assassin to the khanum had yet struggled with. A strange calm descended over him even as Reason called him a fool for resigning himself to a hopeless fate, when he had fought so violently to survive during all his miserable years of existence.

If to love Christine and be with her for whatever time they had remaining also meant to turn himself over to the merciless authorities when that black hour arrived, then what he must suffer was worth it. He would do what Providence demanded - and _the opposite_ of what the shadows decreed -

To ensure his Angel's safety in body and mind _he_ would become the sacrifice.

.

**xXx**

.

Christine blindly hurried through the rock corridor.

Her stifled sobs of offended anger at his mistrust altered into silent tears of guilt by the time she was midway to the pool. She stopped abruptly in the path as shameful realization took hold - and seared into her mind.

He had been right to doubt her.

She didn't want to admit it then and had used indignation as a shield to deflect his scorn. But God help her, _he had been right!_

She had made flimsy excuses to him for her choice to tidy his masks, even to herself when she had done it, but she had not planned to tell him that she'd put them away. She had hoped he would forget, that she could _make_ him forget. During what was left of their week together, she had not wanted him even to entertain the idea of putting a mask back on.

To her, foolish though it may be, the absence of his mask was a sign of his trust. Something she craved since the time she first abused it, when in curiosity she tried to look beyond his mask. The second time, in their bed, she had been so overwhelmed she had wanted to learn all of him, including the part he kept shielded from her, and though he had lashed out and been furious, she had finally convinced him that her love was unreserved.

This time, there had been no excuse, and certainly her act bore little in the way of love.

It had been a selfish spurt of childishness, hiding them away because _she_ didn't want them near.

It wasn't that he didn't cut a dashing figure in the masks he had skillfully crafted - her heart often skipped a swooning beat to see him so rakishly outfitted. But she'd been correct to believe that lengthy periods without one would ease the raw irritation of his skin that the paste must produce. Seeing him this morning proved that, also answering her silent question if he'd worn them when he lived a life of solitude. Clearly, he had.

To her, his mask was nothing more than a silk or leather or porcelain adornment for his face, too often an encumbrance when she wished for deep intimacy.

To him, his mask was a necessary piece of armor, to protect him and keep him distant from the hatred and ridicule of a cruel world.

But she was _not_ the world and she did _not_ want him to regard her as the enemy, which she sometimes feared he did. In wearing his face armor as a shield against her, the silent message of distance drummed like hollow brass inside her heart. Through all the uncertain days and lonely nights she had endured, his absences taught her to despise distance - and she wanted no more of it from him, in any form!

She had persuaded him that it didn't matter to her what he chose to do about wearing or not wearing the masks. In justifying herself now, at the time she believed her claim.

She had behaved foolishly, childishly - taking away what mattered to him most - hoping not to earn his trust but to _seize_ it. In the bliss of their union she had grown too bold, too careless, and in the process, she most assuredly lost any fragment of his trust she'd regained.

Her resentful anger faded away like the shadows on the wall near her torch. She looked back the way she had come, wishing only to run back to him and beg his forgiveness. Yet as much as she hated such angry distance between them, they both needed time to calm. And for him it took longer to reach such peace…

Looking ahead Christine could just discern the bend of the path and decided she would do what she had come to do. She would bathe.

Soon she reached the entrance to the springs and placed the torch in the wall holder near the water. Slipping out of her robe, she let it fall to the ground and moved to the nearby rock lip of the pool.

She stopped in confusion and blinked, wondering if she was seeing things, then stepped closer.

Beside the wall, in the pool, the torchlight picked up what looked like a step leading down to another. Beneath the water it glistened as if with tiny crystals. Her hand using the wall as a brace, she stepped down onto a solid surface covered with what felt like fine, grainy sand. Realizing that these _were_ stairs, she abruptly sank to the edge of the pool, both feet in the water, and buried her face in her hands in shame. Touched by his thoughtfulness that cut an even sharper edge to her selfishness, the hot tears again came, his mysterious absence the previous day now solved.

While she had been acting like a silly child in hiding what belonged to him, unwittingly making his life much more difficult, he had been here, laying these stairs, to help make her life a little easier.

She was a wretched, _wretched_ _girl! _She would not blame him if he never did another kind thing for her, now seeing her for the truly awful person she was!

Her crying did not seem as if it would ever abate, but at last it did, and she wiped her eyes and runny nose, still feeling horrid but calmer.

Somehow she would make it up to him. She would! She simply must stop always letting her heart dictate her actions when discretion proved a wiser course. _How many times had she been told that?_ The trouble was, she didn't always know the better course, in order to follow it. Logic wasn't always sound. And clearly, her heart wasn't always unselfish.

Sniffling softly to quell the remainder of tears, Christine lowered herself the rest of the way into the heated water with the aid of the wonderful stairs he had crafted. Closing her eyes and briefly dunking her head beneath, she smoothed her hair back from her forehead and let the softly fizzing water wrap in liquid comfort around her.

She had not swum since she'd been a small girl - and very badly - at the lip of the sea's shallow, foaming waters. The sudden urge to try again had her lift herself onto her back and affect a few remembered strokes. Awkward at first, yes, but a grin spread across her lips even as a film of water swept across her face. A bathtub so big she could swim in it - who would have imagined such a thing! And Madame had thought her life below would be equivalent to living in a dungeon!

She popped to her feet and giggled then realized she had reached the rock that formed the natural ledge where she and Erik had engaged in their own form of heated bathing. At the memory, a rush of a different pleasurable warmth swept through her, for a moment causing the water to ebb in temperature as hot as her skin became.

She _would_ make this up to him! As soon as she saw him again, she would confess her sin and beg his forgiveness. And never again would she touch his masks as he had demanded. Never.

A large basket sat nearby, and she fumbled inside it, bringing up a few vials of oil. She unstopped one, smiling at the sweet rose fragrance, and worked some through her hair and over her body. Again she dunked her head and broke the surface, working the oil out as best she could then sat back to relax on the ledge, remembering how she had straddled him here, hoping the opportunity would come soon to do so again …

A distant clanging sound - like metal on metal - came from the other side of the rock and she turned to look at the wall in surprised confusion. Her face relaxed when the noise just as quickly stopped. She had no idea what the clanging could have been but its brevity led her to believe it might have something to do with the pipes. The ones in the opera house above were known to make horrendous noises, especially when all was quiet and she had tried to sleep. And Erik had pipes that led all the way down to the cellars.

Giving the matter no further thought, with a sigh of pleasure she closed her eyes and sunk lower until the silky water brushed her jaw.

Erik was right. The effects of the pool were wondrous, gently massaging and extracting every ache and point of stress from her entire body. She could think of a few instances that this lovely secret they both now shared could greatly aid her. Feeling herself flush with the thought - would she ever stop blushing? - she began to feel lethargic and decided she should leave these delicious waters, already planning for her next return. And if all went as she hoped, her husband would be with her.

Eager to find him and try to mend what she had torn, she exited the pool by aid of the stairs and took a long piece of rolled toweling from a new basket she noticed that sat near the ledge. Buffing her body until it tingled and her long wet hair until the curls again sprung a little thicker and drier, she went over in her mind what she would say to him, discarding one idea to come up with another. By the time she reached the main lake room of the lair, she still hadn't decided how to approach him. Yet it failed to matter.

Erik was nowhere to be found.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: A lot of introspection here. But all of it necessary to know.**

**Those who prefer more action in chapters, they're coming too...**


	36. Of Frocks

**A/N: So, you guys want a little more action, huh? (heh heh) Never let it be said I'm one to disappoint****…That said, this story is rated M for a reason - closer to MA. A hot MA. This chapter is one of those reasons. Those offended by mega heat, proceed with caution. Skim the steamy waters if you prefer. Any readers too young for this - you shouldn't even be here****…**

* * *

**Chapter XXXVI**

**Of Frocks ****…**

.

Christine's heart fell as she eyed the vast and empty chamber.

_Where had he gone?_

Almost at a run, she hurried up the stairs, moving past the organ then down and up the second staircase to their bedchamber.

The room where they had spent the greater part of the past three days stood empty. Nor was he in the privy chamber. Nor in any of the alcoves, and she didn't dare go into the tunnel he'd forbidden. The tunnel in which she'd fallen - and almost through a trap door!

Christine returned to their bed and sank to its edge, the urgency of her need to mend things between them lending to her despair. Of course, she knew he would return eventually; this was his home. But painful memories of the weeks of distance he intentionally created shunned all logic - and oh, how she wanted him back now!

She shook her head and frowned. "Selfish, selfish, that's all you are Christine Da – d-de Chagny …" she whispered the last, fumbling over the name that sounded so bizarre, but continued with her self rebuke. "Always thinking about yourself and what _you_ want! Rarely about what he might need. And clearly he wants a little time away from you. Stop being so foolish. It's not forever."

Their argument aside, Erik had lived in solitude the entirety of his life. Was it any wonder he should need to seek moments alone, especially when upset?

With a little huff and another reproving shake of her head, she directed her attention to the gray dress she had slung over a maroon leather-bound chest. Recognizing something she could put her attention to, she decided to get dressed.

With relief she noted that the woolen gown still looked acceptable though she would need to find a way to hang it, to avoid further wrinkles. The chest stood high, to her waist, but the dress would fare better on a hanger. She held the skirt out to the sides, then briskly smoothed an area where pesky crinkles had formed. She wondered if Erik might have an iron. Of course, she had no idea how to use one…

She paused in her task and straightened, sensing a change in the atmosphere. The fine hairs at the back of her neck tingled and Christine took in a quick breath, turning to look behind her.

Empty.

Pulling her brows together in disappointment she returned her attention to the dress. Clearly a case of wishful thinking.

With a little sigh, she worked with her fingers and thumb, attempting to do what little she could to press out the wrinkles caused from long hours of the dress being folded in the bundle Meg put together for her. At last somewhat satisfied, she turned with the dress in her hands…

And almost dropped it to the ground.

Erik stood no more than arms' length away, watching her. His eyes glimmered with green fire. Dark … but no longer stormy.

Dizzying heat flashed through her face. Somehow she forced her numb lips to form an apology.

"Y-you were right. I- I'm sorry. I was a wret_ched_ -"

He moved so swiftly she barely gasped the last syllable as his long, slender hands grabbed her head and his mouth came down on hers. Hard. Hungry.

Little whimpers of relief to again have him close trembled through her body; quiet rasps against his demanding lips. She felt him wrench the dress from her motionless, clutched hands, barely aware of the act as he threw it toward the foot of the bed. All Christine knew was that her hands were suddenly free and she reached for him, moving them inside his robe over hard muscle and heated skin, gasping when her fingers found the smoothness of his tight bottom and she realized he no longer wore his breeches.

He made quick work of the belt knotted around her waist, all the while his lips set fire to hers, molding, nibbling, tugging. Urging. Crushing… The warm air of the room hit her skin as her robe fell open. His hands grasped her waist and lifted her to sit on the chest where her dress had lain. The top of his head came level with her jaw.

She blinked in surprise, looking down at him. "E-Erik …?" she whispered hoarsely.

With his hand cradling her nape, his lips burned a fevered trail down her throat and he gathered her trembling legs around his hips over his robe, never taking his mouth from her skin. He shifted, pressing his palms against her shoulder blades and brought her upper body swiftly toward him, her taut nipple landing in his ready mouth.

She let out a soft urgent cry. He tugged with his teeth, his warm, wet tongue giving solace from the faint sting as he laved her then tugged again and again. Insistent then tender. Firm and slow. Moving to her other breast with the same fiery conduct, suckling her intensely then softly until she was sure she would grow faint and fall off the chest.

The shock of his passionate assault was scorched away in a blaze of desire, so rich and full she shook from the extent of it. Her hands moved from clutching his shoulders for dear life to entangling in his hair and grasping his head. She pressed her fingers against his temples as she held him to her and almost sobbed in relief to feel the ridges of his bare, maskless skin against her hands.

Erik became delectably lost in the satin-soft warmth of his bride. Her skin was fragrant with the scent of roses, the taste of her sweet and warm. He broke his soft suction over her nipple, the tip of his tongue indolently licking the erect nub of rosy flesh before moving his wet caress toward her wildly heaving stomach and her navel. He felt her muscles contract in her swift inhalation of breath and brought his hands to cover the tops of her slim thighs, pushing them further apart.

Her own sweet fragrance filled his senses as his lips brushed to the bottom of her soft thatch of dark curls and she jumped in shock.

"Erik! Wh-what are you doing?"

The top of the chest was too damn low for what he wished to do and he straightened to his full height and looked into her wide, innocent, uncertain eyes. Twisting his lips into a half smile, he seized her and pulled her hard against his body.

With her legs wrapped around his hips she immediately grabbed his head, giving a frantic little moan and seeking his mouth, plunging her eager tongue inside it. He kissed her with the same fierceness, the manner in which her womanly sex pressed against his robe, all that covered his throbbing shaft, making it difficult not to ravish her in that instant. Instead he walked with her the short distance to their bed. Slightly lowering them both, he slid his hands from her bottom, pulling her legs from around him, and tossed her down so that she lay across the width of the bed.

Perfect.

His hands circled her slender ankles as he moved toward her while she sat up to reach for him. He slowly shook his head with a faint, devilish smile, watching her, remaining where he was as he slid his touch around the silken skin of her calves and knees to beneath the lower half of her perfect thighs. She shivered beneath his grasp and awkwardly laid back down. He licked the sweet skin inside her knee and felt her shudder once more. He paused, waiting several seconds until she again looked at him, then slowly pushed her legs wide.

Christine gasped, her heart beating wild from his earlier hungered caresses, her pulse racing shyly by his current seductive and inscrutable behavior. Her eyes fluttered closed as she waited for him to join their bodies. She felt breathless with tingling excitement and nervous with trembling anticipation of what would come next.

She didn't have long to find out.

Erik firmly licked the moist flesh of her center, the heady tang of her womanly pleasure different than what he expected - but wholly satisfying.

"Erik!" At his wet caress she jumped up and slid back so quickly she nearly came off the bed.

Alarmed, he quietly spoke for the first time. "Did I hurt you?"

Silence became her endless reply as she stared at him from across the short expanse with gaping mouth and wide, startled doe eyes, her breathing shallow and erratic.

A rakish grin tilted his lips and he wickedly chuckled. "I will take your lack of reply as a no." Grabbing her legs, he hauled her body back to him and pressed his mouth deliberately between her thighs.

Christine inhaled a shuddering gasp then cried out sharply, her wail primal as his long, hot tongue again slowly laved her.

_"Dear __… God __…" _

She was going to die …

Burst into flames …

The flames that now consumed her …

As his mouth now consumed her …

His thumbs parted her hidden folds and he moved in deeper. Teasing, testing, firm then light. Rapid then slow. She writhed under the insistent strokes of his tongue, gasped at the soft scrape of his teeth, and then he began gently to suckle her …

And she was sure she'd reached heaven.

Unclenching the coverlet from tight fists, she grasped handfuls of his hair. His hold on her hips tightened and he plunged his tongue inside her.

_"Erik!"_ she whimpered, the pain and the pleasure combined almost too much to bear.

His rapid breaths scorched her wet flesh, his wild tongue doing the most wicked and wondrous things, and Christine felt the sharp, shining point of her climax close in fast. With her body strongly shaking from the litany of pleasurable torments her dark Angel lavished upon her, she began to rock beneath him. Again he suckled her …

And heaven exploded.

Shattering into fragments of fire …

Panting hard, barely aware as he continued to take his fill, Christine could take no more.

"Erik … please … oh, God – _please_." Finally she found the strength to press her tingling palms to the sides of his head urging him upward. He resisted at first but then yielded and moved his solid, lean body over her soft one that ached to be filled with him.

His lips were parted and wet, his eyes darkened and burning with all of what more he wished to do to her. She exhaled a shaky breath, reaching up to haul his robe off his shoulders, dragging it down with her hands pressed against his muscled flesh. He shifted to remove it then slipped hers completely off and again covered her with all of his body, pressing her into the mattress. At the naked feel of him so close, she shivered. At the satisfaction of his thick hardness pressing slowly into her, sinking so deep, she gave a little cry.

_"Christine __… Christine __…"_

His gentle utterance of her name came raspy and warm, yet somehow still musical, brushing against her senses, producing its own shiver of dark pleasure. With his forearms pressed to hers, his hands gripped her hands, and their fingers entwined. Softly. Then firmly, as his strokes continued strong and deep, gentle and slow, immersing them both in a place where only sweet sensation existed …

And breathless, urgent fire.

He buried his lips against her shoulder, brushing his mouth along her neck, pressing his lips beneath her jaw. She wrapped her leg around him, drawing him to her with each delicious plunge, aching for release but hungry to extend their passion beyond all concept of return. His lips found hers and she pushed her tongue inside his mouth, the taste of her desire odd but hardly decreasing her pleasure to experience the strokes of his tongue burning against hers. Still clasping her hands, he slowly slid them upward on the mattress, beside her head and above it, their fingers tightening, digging into flesh, wet palms pressing hard against each other as the ache inside became very great. Devoid of what little breath she yet had, she pulled her lips from his, gasping then groaning, begging and rocking more urgently with him as he increased his thrusts to fill their need…

And once more heaven exploded, bathing them in fire.

.

**xXx**

.

From the shadowed wing of the stage, empty save for two people, Meg crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the redhead who now had her talons on a stout, bearded stranger.

Disgusting trollop. She was one to talk about Christine!

Meg continued to watch, not one to eavesdrop, but that vicious tart deserved none of her respect. It wasn't as if they tried to hide. Deep in conversation, they stood as close as lovers would, and for an instant Meg thought about her dear friend and her new situation. She missed Christine dearly but supposed she must grow accustomed to such absences now that her friend was a married woman. The realization and her choice of husband still came as something of a shock, but not as strongly felt as when Christine first revealed her heart's desire to marry the legendary Opera Ghost, who was no ghost. Meg wondered if one day she might also know such pleasure with a man…

Not if Maman had anything to say about it.

Meg frowned. She still suffered the sting of embarrassment of the unjust rebuke toward her and Charles, caught together in a champagne toast on Don Juan's opening night. His peck on the lips Meg hadn't expected but to her aggravation, her mother had walked up just in time to see it. After Maman's scolding, Meg wondered if Charles would ever talk to her again. Not that she was interested in her red-haired friend, though he was quite the comedian and made her laugh. Her interest lay elsewhere, little good that did.

As she watched, Monsieur Buquet walked toward the sickening pair. He also disgusted her. She literally experienced a sour taste of revulsion every time he ogled her beneath her neck. That seemed the only area of a woman's body he noticed, he rarely looked at the face, and she knew about his peepholes in the walls and his lecherous habit of spying. Recalling Christine's unease that someone watched them in their dormitory when they had conversed, Meg wondered if her friend was right and the stagehand had been the culprit. Christine also had shared with Meg the Phantom's warning of a new danger in the opera house…

That had startled her but came as no great surprise. She could count on one hand the number of people she trusted here, and still have fingers left to spare.

Meg expected the strange man to tell Buquet off, surprised when the three began seriously conversing. Her eyes narrowed as Buquet handed the man something, and she saw the glint of metal … a key? A coin? Damn it, she was too far away to tell. She furrowed her brow in frustration. Clearly Buquet knew the man too. As she thought about it, she was more surprised that in these last few days no one told the stranger to go. Of late, he'd made a habit of wandering around the warren of backstage corridors, as if he belonged there. He didn't work in the theater, not to her knowledge; his wasn't the sort of face to leave a mark on the memory. She had only noticed him because he so intently stared at Christine on the night of her opening, and the look in his eyes had made Meg shiver inside. Not of lust, like Buquet, but something… indefinable. And dark. Very dark.

She inhaled swiftly as Chantel caught sight of her. Damn. The strumpet's gaze hardened but Meg stood her ground and lifted her chin. The stage was public property. She had as much right to be there as anyone. Chantel said something to the men, who both swiftly looked her way – and above and behind Meg, their interest sharpening.

"Miss Giry?"

The soft male tenor sent a flutter of warmth straight to the core of Meg's heart. She swallowed hard and turned to greet their patron.

"Vicomte, hello." She tried to push away her sudden foolish bout of giddiness as his clear, aquamarine eyes acknowledged her. It's not like they hadn't talked several times before, though always about Christine. She stifled a sigh. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Horrors! Her face was turning bright red, she could feel it. No doubt in direct relation to the vivid dreams she'd had last night of just what she had done to him and with him and he to her. No thanks to that forbidden book – and certainly Christine's recent nuptials were the cause of such shocking dreams. She drew comfort from the fact that at least she hadn't made a complete idiot of herself with the Vicomte and curtsied as she'd done to The Phantom at his wedding. Why, she didn't know, but the few times she'd seen him he struck her as bearing the appearance of a noble, even a royal. At least after witnessing Christine's absolute trust in him and how much he truly loved her friend most of the fright caused by his dark and mysterious demeanor had faded, though she doubted she would ever feel at enough ease with him to call him Erik. Since childhood he had been a fearsome legend to produce exciting little shivers and whisper with Christine about in the dead of night; how did one give a legend something as innocuous as a name?

"I would like to talk with you about Christine."

Meg allowed the sigh to escape. Some things never changed.

"I'm sorry. I really don't know how you think I can help you. As I said two days ago, I haven't a clue where Christine is." She bit her tongue at the lie. Even for Raoul, she would not betray her friend.

He arched his brow in curiosity. "I find it difficult to believe that she didn't confide in you, as close as you two are. You're her best friend."

"Yes, and surely you must know, monsieur, that best friends don't tattle."

"I'm not asking you to betray a confidence. Your mother showed me the letter, and though it makes me curious why Christine would do such a shocking thing at such a monumental time in her life, I'll respect her wishes."

_Letter?_ Mother had _a_ _letter_? Meg lightly sucked her lips against her teeth wondering what letter he could possibly be talking about.

"For Christine's sake, I am relieved to know that you've come to honor them," she said carefully.

"Why should I not? They are her family. I was only surprised to learn that Christine had relations here in Paris. Cousins, I believe?"

Meg blinked hard, realizing he wasn't talking about the Phantom after all, and managed a tight nod.

His eyes narrowed on her face. "But she doesn't have cousins, does she, Mademoiselle? Here or anywhere else?" His manner seemed sad, almost resigned.

"I … clearly she does if she sent the letter. Why would she lie about something like that?"

"I wonder …Why does Christine do so many things?" He sighed, shaking his head wearily.

"And why do _you_ always have such a profound interest in Christine and all she does! Are you blind to anything or anyone else in this theater?"

She instantly realized that in blurting her tense response without thinking she had just given him knowledge of her own interest. Oh, dear.

"I - I mean, you seem more concerned with Christine, who by her letter assures Maman that she is well…" She floundered with the bits of information he'd given - "…than you seem to be interested in the workings of this theater and what's happening outside these walls!"

She lowered her eyes, not meaning to have come across so forward, suddenly realizing he had the authority to kick her to the curb if he so wished, though she doubted a man of his reputation would cause a woman harm.

"Forgive me, monsieur, I –"

"Christine and I share a history together."

She bowed her head.

"She is special to me…"

Her heart deflated a little more and she gave a diminutive nod.

"…like a little sister."

Like a little…

"Sister?" Her head snapped up.

His light eyes flickered as if his mind had just registered a startling bit of information. She worked to regain her composure.

"I had understood…" Dear God! What was she about to confess? _That you desire my friend in a physical sense that comes nowhere near describing a sister..?_

"Never mind," she said meekly. "Perhaps I was wrong."

He continued to study her rosy face several tormented heartbeats longer.

"I won't deny that I had hoped for more, upon coming here and being reunited, but Christine has made her requests known. I will respect that."

_Then you're not deeply, unreservedly, and madly in love with her?_ her mind cried out in soft demand. She was suddenly very glad he could not read her thoughts.

Looking into his intent eyes, she saw perhaps he was not, and perhaps he could, and fought a sudden wave of relief tinged with no small amount of awkwardness.

"While I no longer intend to seek Christine in an amorous pursuit, that does not change the fact that I care deeply about her and her welfare. She could be in grave danger. There is much you don't know …You mention my negligence to concentrate on what is going on outside these walls. At present, there is a lull of peace. I am more concerned about what is going on within them."

"Because of the Phantom and Christine?" Meg's mouth dropped open in horror of what she'd just revealed. He didn't seem surprised, for which she was grateful, but hastily added, "I assure you, monsieur, you have no need to fear for Christine's safety where he is concerned. He has protected her since she came to live at this theater."

"So I've been assured many times over," he said dryly, then looked away and added, almost to himself, "It seems as if Little Lotte has at last found her Angel of Music…but just who is this man who hides himself in the deepest of shadows?" He looked up at Meg, as if seeking an answer.

She gave a light shrug. "I know very little about him. He's always been a man of mystery."

"Too much of one if you ask me. But all that is about to change…"

"Monsieur?"

His smile suddenly dazzled, his charm a physical force, as his mind clearly switched to another topic… and her mind became a blank.

"The hour is late. I wonder, Miss Giry, if you would care to dine with me?"

Stunned by his invitation, that he would truly ask _her_, Meg felt as if she might float away in one of Christine's fairyland dreams or puddle into a graceful pool at his well-shod feet. No, she was not one for fainting spells. And she liked to think that even if she was a bit vivacious and fluttery at times, she still retained some good sense.

She remained standing, elegantly erect as Maman said a ballerina always should be, and inclined her head. "I should like that, Monsieur."

The admiration in his twinkling eyes made her heart turn over.

Meg was so overwhelmed by her extraordinary stroke of good fortune, she forgot what she had earlier seen and barely noticed that the despicable trio had vanished.

.

**xXx**

.

Christine relaxed in the soothing glow of fulfillment, half asleep – then gasped as she remembered.

"My dress!"

In dismay, she pulled away from Erik's arms to see that her woolen dress had indeed become entwined in the rumpled bedding at their feet, a victim of forgetfulness in the wake of their passion. Sweet murmured words of forgiveness had led to more intense lovemaking, the result being the poor, forgotten dress had become horribly entangled with the discarded coverlet.

She leaned over and pulled at one woolen sleeve, bringing the coverlet entwined dress her way. She heard the quiet rustle of satin and felt the bed shift as Erik sat up behind her. His fingertips softly traced the round of her shoulder and she shivered at the touch of his warm lips touching the slope of her skin.

The wrinkles she had worked so hard to smooth had increased tenfold, and she curbed a groan. She had no idea how to care for clothing, the seamstresses and washerwomen took care of such things, but she certainly could never go back above looking as if she'd been dragged through one of their wringers! And she doubted that even if Erik did possess an iron and she could figure out how to use it that it would do any good. The bodice had permanent folds at the neckline where the navy piping of corded ribbon had been badly creased, perhaps permanently.

"Do not trouble yourself over your frock," Erik said quietly against her neck, his lips teasing a trail to her ear.

She melted against him tilting her head to the side, wrinkles and frocks forgotten for the moment. His fingertips brushed her jaw, gently turning her face toward him for his kiss. His lips caressed hers, the tip of his tongue teasing the outside rim as he kissed her, and she gave a soft little sigh, moving her hand to rest against his cheek to hold him there. Her fingertips lightly traced the crevasse near his cheekbone and the hard patch of skin above, when suddenly he pulled away.

She drew her brows together in distress, having so hoped they were past his tenseness for her to touch or look at the twisted side of his face. Having hoped that the absence of the mask was also a sign of his forgiveness.

However his eyes held no hint of anger, now shining bright emerald.

"If it were my choice, you would never need the frock because you would never leave this bed."

He slipped his other hand to rest at her waist and hip and she giggled, relieved that, perhaps, their earlier argument was indeed behind them. She certainly wouldn't bring it up again.

"That might make it difficult to sing in the opera," she teased in solemn reply.

He arched his one dark brow. "You would sing for me."

"Every song I sing, I sing for you."

He nodded with a confident smile. "Thus, you have no need for a frock."

"Oh, Erik – you are wicked." He captured her light giggle with another brush of his lips, then pulled away and moved toward the edge of the bed.

"Erik…?" she asked in confusion, his behavior in direct conflict with his pronouncement.

He stood up and though she felt the heat of a blush she didn't look away. He gathered her robe from the floor where it had fallen and held it open for her.

Shyly she smiled and slid from beneath the sheet as she stood, turning her back to him. He slipped the velvet over her arms and shoulders pulling the edges across her breasts, his fingers brushing her tingling skin with the motion. He drew her back and held her against him.

"In truth," he whispered, "It is almost as pleasurable to dress you as it is to undress you. Almost …" She heard the smile in his voice and again felt rosy heat flush her face, in embarrassment, in pleasure. His palms smoothed down her breasts over the velvet to her stomach, and he pressed his lips to her hair.

"Not that it will do any good, I think it is beyond all hope of saving …" Her voice was a wisp, his warm touch making it difficult to think. "But is there somewhere I can hang my dress?" She doubted it would remedy the problem, but she certainly couldn't leave it lying on the bed to endure further damage when they again made love.

"Come with me," he whispered, one of his hands lowering to clasp hers and bring her around to him. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it softly before pulling her with him around the bed and toward the back of the chamber, while grabbing his own robe from where it had landed on the ruffled neck of the golden phoenix. She collected the poor crushed dress.

He brought her before a large tapestry with shimmering threads of ruby, sapphire, emerald and gold that hung against the cave wall. The intricate design embroidered into the cloth was of roses, doves, and angels, not unlike those celestial beings painted in the chapel, feminine, and exotically beautiful. She had often admired it when she was confined to their bed after her accident in the tunnels.

"Pull it back," he instructed, letting go of her hand.

Certain only a wall of rock lay behind, she looked at him with a curious smile before drawing the edge aside. The tapestry slid back and gathered like a drape, revealing a shallow alcove – and inside a long line of frocks in numerous hues that resembled a vivid rainbow…

The little gray dress slipped from her nerveless grasp, again forgotten. Her mouth dropped open as she stared in bewildered awe.

Shimmering satins, plush velvets, watery silks, sprigged lawns, soft woolens – every cloth she could imagine for every need she might have hung there. Above on a shelf was a row of slippers to match.

"Did you get these from the costume department?" she whispered.

"No, my love. They are yours."

"Mine?" she squeaked and turned her head sharply to look at him.

"Made by three seamstresses to fit your measurements precisely. In the trunk," he motioned toward the corner and a dark green leather and brass studded container with a curved lid, "you will find all else you will need."

"Mine ...?" she whispered staring at him, moisture welling in her eyes.

His expression sobered and he studied her in concern. His hands lifted to gently clasp her arms. "Do you not like them, Christine? Only tell me, and I will arrange for a new trousseau to be made."

"_Mine __…_" Her word came barely above a whisper, a tear breaking free and rolling down her cheek.

With a curse he sharply drew her to him. His arms wrapped hard around her, her fists held up tightly against him, trapped between them, her head nestled beneath his chin.

Her father had given her a book of fairy tales on her sixth birthday. After his death, before the creditors could take all else, she took and hid her parents' small framed portrait to remember them by.

When she was twelve, Meg gave her one of two lace-edged handkerchiefs she'd received as a gift. A week later it disappeared from her box, likely stolen by one of the other ballet rats.

Nothing else of value had she ever been able to claim full ownership to.

And her Angel, her husband and teacher, had given her the sum of …

Everything.

The sobs came then, hard and fierce, raking through her lungs. Unable to stop them she pressed her face against his warm chest, wetting his skin with her tears. He swore again and drew her more tightly against him. She pushed her fists from between their chests, her arms going around him, clinging to him until she could feel every hard muscle and sinew against her body.

He stroked her back and her hair, and she felt the touch of his lips against her scalp more than once. When at last she quieted, she realized what a mess she must appear and wondered what he must think of her. To give her such a gift and have her react like a silly, stupid child, tears and drool and God knew what else all over his chest from her foolish breakdown, and – oh, what a sight she must be!

She pulled away slightly, lifting her hand to swipe, mouth, nose and eyes. She was pathetic.

To cover her embarrassment, she tried to laugh. It came off as a wavering little snort, sounding as foolish as her tears.

"I'm a mess, aren't I?"

"You're beautiful."

"Erik, I know better," she reproved in self disgust. "I'm a blotchy, red-eyed, runny mess."

"You're beautiful," he insisted more softly, cradling her damp face with his hands.

She shook her head in weak amusement. "I suppose we'll never see eye to eye on that subject, will we?"

His eyes flickered, and she felt he understood she referred to his own appearance, but he didn't respond to the question.

"Do not feel such anguish over this, Christine. It's alright. I'm not upset."

But she could see the hurt in his troubled eyes.

"I reacted like a child."

He smiled softly. "You cannot help what you feel. I have little experience when it comes to the modes of women's fashion. The styles of this day are unlike the period costumes of an opera, and in that regard I have failed you."

She blinked at him with a new wave of shock. "You picked out the dresses?"

"I designed them."

Her mouth dropped open further.

"Never mind. It fails to matter. Please, Christine, do not be concerned over this; I will dispose of them and have them replaced."

"You most certainly will not!"

Erik blinked in confusion at her sudden change of mood, from wilting distress to bold indignation. A gentle little smile tilted her lips, puffy and reddened from her cry. He desired to taste of them again.

"You will not touch one beautiful thread of any one of those gowns. I forbid it."

His brow rose in mild amusement. "You _forbid_ it?"

"Yes. They are perfect … and they are mine." Her eyes shone with her happiness, and suddenly he understood.

"Christine, everything I have is yours. I wish to give you whatever you please. The best of all I have to offer and everything there is to gain."

She pulled his head down, giving him the kiss he had desired. His Angel's lips were gentle and warm, soft and enticing…

She pulled away, her brow drawn in confusion.

"But … how did you do it?"

"Twenty thousand francs a month amasses an effective stipend over many years."

"No, I don't mean that." She motioned to the wardrobe area he had prepared for her. "There are _so many!_ Madame told me you had been planning for our life together for weeks, but I don't see how you could have designed all that, and fixed the pipe for heating, and taught me my lessons, and designed my perfect rings, and so much more I'm sure I'll never begin to know."

He chuckled at her girlish effusiveness. "I have been designing your dresses for two years, altering minor details when necessary for the sake of fashion, but there was little in the way of such change. I did not turn the designs over to Madame to give to the seamstresses until last year. Of late, whatever adjustments were needed for fit were taken care of at my orders."

"You did, didn't you?" she asked in hushed awe, when he didn't deny what she suggested. She had suspected the possibility, after having seen his skilled genius with all forms of art, but had given it little further thought, since she didn't see how he could have had time. "You designed my rings too?"

His eyes glowed a tender shade of jade and he gave a soft nod. "Madame took my designs to a jeweler's with my instructions."

She felt lightheaded with the overwhelming knowledge of all he had done in planning for her to become his wife. Not weeks of preparation - but _years_ … she knew about the Phoenix/Venus bed and the wedding gown, of course, but hadn't realized how much more extensive his endeavors went. She wondered if she ever would. She had only learned the truth by questioning him. Would he have told her had she not asked?

His alluring mystery was a part of his nature that would never vanish, as Madame once told her. Nor did she wish it away. Christine sensed that her lifetime with her enigmatic husband would be a never-ending parade of startling surprises.

"You are the most amazing man I know," she whispered, emotion thick in her throat. "Thank you."

He huffed a soft breath of amusement and gave a careless, graceful shrug of his hands, his eyes briefly darting away. His uneasy reaction made her wonder if anyone besides herself had ever expressed appreciation to him. From what she knew of her Angel, she sensed she was the only one who had offered him praise.

"I clothe myself in the best there is to be obtained," he explained with a wry twist of a smile. "I could hardly have my wife walk about in rags."

But Christine knew it was much more than that.

She had seen into his heart…

And never had she known one as bountiful.

Drawing his mouth down to her lips, she gave him all of her heart in return.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Aw, look, no cliffhanger. Aren't I sweet to end the chapter like that? (what's wrong with me! lol) Enjoy it while it lasts, my phriends, because there's soon to be bits and pieces of some shakin' goin' on****…until one by one, everything explodes****…and nothing is as you thought it would be****… **

**(I'm such a tease. 0-:-)) Please review?**


	37. Stranger Than You Dreamt It

**A/N: Thank you so much guys! :) ****…A note about this chapter and those to come: at this time in Paris (in true history), the city had just come out of a heavy siege ( September 19, 1870 – January 28, 1871). Under such circumstances, the opera house would not have been functional - the city was suffering, starving - and for actual PotO story- there would have been nothing going on at the O.P., including the New Year's Bal Masque. (After the French surrender, the Prussians surrounded the city from January - early March of that year). From what little I could find in my research the actual Paris opera house was _somewhat_ empty at that time period and in the months that followed (more on that later). But no performances were given.**

**Since that did NOT happen for ALW's movie, which I'm following, BUT since I would like to keep this somewhat within the bounds of history, and since this is my own opera house, I took some artistic license while trying to keep things believable for what _could_ happen****…within this fantasy! haha **

**Also, I had not planned to write this first scene, but due to your requests, including one from my wonderful beta - I figured out a way to write it to help forward the plot- (Oh, and caf****és were open during the siege - I saw a menu of an 1871 one in my research****… let's just say, you don't want to know****…but at _my_ caf****é they're serving normal food. :P) - on a "side" sidenote- *snort*- I finished the 9th act of Phantom Christmas Carol for the video story I've been putting on Youtube (using footage from the 2004 movie and other movies, to fit) if anyone here is following that (the prequel story to this one). :) I'm honeyphan2 there ****… **

**And now****…**

* * *

**Stranger Than You Dreamt It**

**Chapter XXXVII**

**. **

At the small outdoor café across from the opera house, with lamplight casting a soft glow all around the perimeter, Meg sat at an intimate round table with Raoul as he gave the waiter their order. She still felt she must pinch herself to believe that they were dining alone together. Had Maman known, she likely would have interfered, and Meg was thankful that her mother had closed herself up in her office with work shortly after the last practice ended.

The waiter bowed and moved away, and Raoul focused his blue eyes on her.

"I apologize for not taking you somewhere indoors, I do hope you're not too cold, but there are few establishments inside Paris that have any fare worthy of the palette at this time. This is the best café I have found."

Was he truly _apologizing_ to her? If they shared a loaf of bread on a bench in the empty kitchen of the opera house she would be just as content.

She smiled. "It is fortunate then that it is so close and not on the other side of the city. And please, this is lovely. I'm not one bit cold." The night air held a distinct chill but inside she felt warm, basking in his presence, and she _had_ changed from her flimsy costume into a simple wool dress and cloak.

"It is not only fortunate but incredible that such a place exists, with most of the city starving, thanks to the Prussians…." Raoul's words trailed off as if in deep thought.

Starving? Meg drew her brows together in surprise and glanced at other customers nearby. No one looked gaunt, though some looked thin…

At the opera house they had always had enough to eat, even if the fare was often bland and scarce in selection, and often the same course was repeated for days. So enmeshed was she in the life of the theater, a separate world existing within its walls, that she'd given little thought to the situation inside the city until the soldiers had scattered and rumors of a probable revolution trickled into every backstage conversation. She thought of the hidden corridors and the few snippets of rumors she once overheard of underground canals that supposedly existed and led outside the city. Had their chef, Pierre, found a way to smuggle food inside the opera house? With the café so close, right outside its doors, did they also have an arrangement? But, what of the Phantom? Surely he would know of it since he lived beneath ground! Unless he was part of such a scheme too…

"Miss Giry…?"

Meg snapped out of her fantastic musings and looked up into his concerned face.

"Where were you just then? You looked troubled. Does something worry you?"

"Worry me? No. I…"

She considered telling him the scope of the ideas that had come to her but at the last moment refrained from making an even bigger fool of herself than before. Her face warmed at her preposterous deductions. An intricate plot of piracy to feed the theater. Really!

"I was just thinking of what you said. I had no idea that the entire city has endured such suffering."

"The poor classes have fared the worst. But, sadly, that is always the case."

Meg nodded, feeling almost guilty for the eager lurch of her stomach as the waiter returned and set her plate before her. She waited until Raoul was also served and then took a bite of her baguette, somewhat crisp on the outside, much like Pierre's. The meat, smothered in a white sauce also resembled his dishes…of course it was nothing more than coincidence, Meg was sure. This outing was her first to sample food other than Pierre's - indeed, her first true outing beyond the opera house. Again, she wondered what Maman would think to know she was outside the doors, dining with their patron.

"So then, you have known Christine since you were children?" Raoul began after setting down his wine glass.

Meg warily looked up from her plate. "Yes."

Raoul nodded pensively. "Tell me…"

"No."

He looked at her in surprise, but she had had enough.

"If this invitation to dinner was only your method to learn more of Christine and her whereabouts then you can stop right there, monsieur. She is well. She is safe. And you may speak with her upon her return this weekend." She pushed her plate away and rose to her feet. "I should return to the opera house now."

"May I finish?" Raoul asked quietly, looking up at her. "Please, sit down, Meg. May I call you that?"

Hearing him address her by name effectively stripped her of all annoyance with him and made her a little giddy too. Uncertain, she slowly lowered herself back to her chair and gave a slight nod.

"I was hoping you would tell me," he resumed, nudging the plate back toward her, "about yourself."

"About me?" She blinked.

He grinned at her. "Yes. I would like to know about your life."

"There's not really much to tell." She gave an embarrassed little shrug. "Maman met Papa at the theater, he was a musician. I have only known life inside the opera house walls."

"You were born there?" He seemed surprised. "I have never seen small children on the premises."

"They usually are not allowed. Any performers or crew who live at the theater and have family make arrangements for their children to live elsewhere and visit them when they can. I was an exception to that rule. And Christine, of course. The manager at that time highly respected her father - Gustave Daae was once a revered part of the orchestra, a good friend of my father's - and when Christine was orphaned the manager gave in to Maman's request for her to stay."

She looked down at her plate and took a bite of meat before continuing proudly, "Maman was in high demand as a new instructor - I have heard it said she is the best they ever had - she was a prima ballerina before meeting Papa. When she learned of my existence, the managers did not wish to lose her or Papa, and they allowed her to keep me at the theater. I was told I was not a fussy baby, which worked in Maman's favor."

She grinned and his eyes twinkled at her in camaraderie.

"Christine also was a quiet child," Meg added thoughtfully. "When we met I was so excited to find a friend close to my age. Oh, there were the ballet rats, of course, but they were all years older, the youngest of them ten. They tolerated me because my mother was the instructor, but they didn't welcome me into their circles, even though I had just begun to take classes with them too. Christine was seven when Maman brought her here, only a year older than myself, and we became fast friends before the night ended. She is like a sister to me. There is nothing I wouldn't do for her…"

She looked up from cutting her meat. "Oh, but I didn't mean to go on so."

"Nonsense." He smiled. "I asked, and would like to know more."

She looked at him in curious confusion. She had often heard the other ballet rats say that men, especially the wealthy ones, preferred to talk about themselves - the wealthier they were, the greater their opinions of their self worth. Raoul seemed to be an exception to that rule. Idly she wondered if Christine's Angel was the same. Certainly he must be if Christine had had no concept that he was a man for nearly a decade of her life! She wondered if the Vicomte also had something to hide …

"I think, instead, I would like to know more about you," she said a little shyly, "if it's not too presumptuous of me to ask?"

"Of course not." He took the bite on his fork and pondered as he chewed. "I was an only child and lived a lonely childhood. My parents were too busy for me and the servants were too busy working for my parents." His plight seemed sad so she was surprised to hear him chuckle. "I was ten when I met Christine. I ran out into the surf and saved her scarf from being pulled out to sea. I recognized her from seeing her dance and sing to her father's violin the previous day, in the town. Her father had a cottage on the waterfront, and my family was visiting a resort nearby. My parents had their own interests, having little to do with a curious child underfoot, and my young nanny enjoyed the beach, where she soon found a man to claim her full attention. Left to myself, I found Christine and we played together there. She behaved much older than her six years and was easy to talk to. Her father's cottage was close by, and during a sudden cloudburst, we told stories in her Papa's attic. We spent every afternoon together before my father spirited us away one morning without explanation. Christine was my first and only true friend. I felt protective toward her from the moment we met."

Meg nodded, finding it remarkable that Christine had made such a difference in both their lives as lonely children, becoming to each of them their first and only true friend and as dear as a sister. At last Meg could begin to understand Raoul's great concern for Christine. If the situation were reversed, she would be just as adamant about learning her welfare and whereabouts.

They continued to share information about themselves as they dined when suddenly Raoul focused on an area behind Meg. A serious expression replaced his easy smile and his eyes grew alert. He looked at her.

"Please excuse me, mademoiselle, I have business I must attend to that will not wait. I'll be back shortly."

"Of course." She looked at him in some confusion as he moved around the table, and she glanced over her shoulder. Raoul moved toward a man she'd never before seen. A mousy looking man, he stood on the outskirts of the café near a lantern, and she took note of his slovenly appearance topped by a battered hat. He did not appear the sort of man that the Vicomte would have associations with, but then Raoul had surprised her in many areas.

She turned back around in her chair. Without his blue eyes to gaze into, she took note of her surroundings. Their table sat at the end of a line of them and she suddenly realized she stared into the face of a small boy who stood on the outskirts of the bistro and stared back at her.

He looked down at her table and licked his bottom lip. His clothing was dirty and patched and hung too big on his thin frame that could definitely be called gaunt. His dark hair grew long and ragged and looked no better. She lowered her gaze to her plate and what was left of the meat and baguette. Prompted by her conversation with Raoul, she looked at the boy and beckoned to him.

He held back a moment - nervously glancing to where the waiter had last disappeared - then slowly moved toward her.

"Bonjour," she said softly, not wanting to alarm him. He looked as if he might run at the sudden drop of a fork. "Are you hungry?" She offered the remaining half of her baguette to him.

The boy, who looked no older than eight, warily took the bread. He stepped back and hurriedly brought the loaf to his mouth as if he'd never eaten a day in his life. Her heart turned over at the pitiful sight. Looking down at her meat, she picked it up between finger and thumb and set it in her napkin. "Here."

She did not need to persuade him to take it. The boy grabbed the napkin then his attention snapped to the area behind her. His shadowed eyes widened. "Be careful, mademoiselle," he said quietly, backing away. "The man with your friend is a bad man. Do not trust him."

She stared at him in shock, but before she could question the child scurried away.

**xXx**

In their lake chamber, Christine lay stretched out beside Erik on a chaise longue, the length and width more than adequate to fit them both comfortably. Her head rested in the crook of his shoulder as he read to her the strange tale that was like none he'd told her before. Not of gods or goddesses or operas or fables, this magical story with scientific origins made her think of more than the tale itself. His fluid voice enchanted her, the quiet rumble of it echoing deep within his chest. She loved to listen to him read, the different inflections of his voice he used to display distinct emotions captivating to her mind; and she preferred such moments as this to reading the book herself. He made the stories come alive.

"I find it curious," she said, when he paused and turned the page for the next chapter, "that anyone would wish to take such a journey. What would compel them to do such a thing as to go so far beneath the earth?"

He was quiet a long moment. "We must resume your practice tonight."

She puzzled at his change of topic, wondering why he did not give his usual opinion, then realized he must have misconstrued her innocent words. She sat up and looked at him. "Oh, I didn't mean _us_. Or this." She motioned to their lair. "I would think the center of the earth is much farther down than the five levels we inhabit."

His lips quirked at that. "Yes, I'm certain it is."

"And I truly do love being here, with you, in our home."

"Christine, I'm not upset. I understood your reference."

"Good." She smiled and tilted her head. "But since we speak of it, what compelled you?"

"Surely you need not ask." He dismissively motioned to his uncovered face.

"But you do wear a mask up above. I should think that would be enough so that you would not feel the need to separate yourself from others as you do. I accept you. Madame Giry and now Meg accepts you. In my opinion anyone who doesn't recognize you for the engaging man you are isn't worthy to know. And truthfully there aren't many in this theater that are worthy of knowing."

"How aptly you have just supported my raison d'être, my dear - to dwell below."

Realizing that she had indeed given him further grounds to do the opposite of what she eventually hoped for his future she grimaced and stuck her tongue out at him.

"Careful," he teased in a leisurely dangerous fashion, like a lethargic lion biding his time for the kill, "or I might be inclined to bite that pretty pink tongue right off." His eyes were mysterious glittering pools of jade.

"Hmph." She wasn't one bit intimidated. "Alright, so, tell me, this, my husband: what journeys have you taken _outside_ the opera house?"

A wary look entered his eyes and she felt him tense beside her. "Journeys?"

She nodded. "Madame told me that you disappeared from the theater for three years."

_"Madame Giry told you that?"_ Terseness bit the edge of each word, all signs of lazy ease lost and forgotten.

Not wishing to make him more upset, and seeing that her innocent answer had done just that, Christine phrased her response carefully. "After my accident, when I went back above, she summoned me to her office and spoke with me. I - I was curious to know more about you. She told me she knew nothing of your life before you came here or during the time you disappeared. I asked her what she meant, but she told me that I must ask you if I wished to know more."

"I am surprised she did not send a Bulletin Du Jour to the editor of _Le Temps_," he quipped sardonically, looking into the distance and remembering how his aide had spoken so freely of his desires to the managers on the night of the spirits. "Regrettably, she has not yet learned that the morbid details of my life are not juicy morsels to be doled out and shared."

She regarded him with a sympathetic smile, running her fingertips slightly along the edge of his robe. "You're still angry with her, aren't you?" He did not respond and she lightly tugged it, gaining his attention. "Is that how she betrayed you, Mon Ange?" she asked softly. "By saying what she shouldn't?"

Erik considered his answer. To admit the truth could reintroduce the subject he had tried for weeks to evade. To speak of that night would no doubt pique her curiosity even further and lead to even more questions, the answers of which would entail his journey to the land he wished for Christine to know nothing about. The land that held his darkest secrets…

"It was over a decade ago. It is no longer important."

"But it must still be important to you, for you to have brought it up yesterday."

"I believe you are trying to evade the current issue."

"What current issue?" Her brows drew together in confusion. "We were speaking of journeys."

"No, _you_ were speaking of them. I brought up what is most important at this time - your lessons. We will resume them tonight."

She looked at him in surprise. "_Lessons?_" She crinkled her nose slightly, thinking of the long tedious hours involved and his strict, distant attitude as her maestro. "Practice, of course I understand. That is important and always will be. But surely I no longer need lessons."

"On the contrary, you will always need lessons, Christine. There is continually room to expand and more to be learned. You must never refuse the opportunity. That was only one of La Carlotta's many faults; due to her unmerited vanity she felt herself far too superior to continue in her education. One must wonder if her hearing was impaired not to recognize the arias she relentlessly slaughtered."

She grinned at that and nodded. "I certainly do not wish to share in such a fate."

"You never will. You have more talent than she could ever hope to possess. Even in her prime, long years ago, what little skill she had could not compare to the magnificence of your voice."

He lightly tugged the edge of her own robe, bringing her closer. He kissed her in slow tenderness, brushing his lips against hers several times before letting her go. She gave a little sigh of contentment, nestling her head against his shoulder.

"All right then, dear Maestro. I will willingly submit to further lessons if you promise not to be so overbearing and stern with me."

She felt his chest shake in a mix between a chuckle and a snort. "If I had not been so, you would never have achieved the excellence that is now a part of you."

She could not argue the point, knowing he was correct, and grudgingly gave up the cause for easier lessons as a lost one. "You still haven't told me about Madame Giry or the journeys you took…"

"I have a better idea." He tossed the book to the ground and moved over her before she could take in a startled breath, his every action lithe and swift and entirely unexpected. His lips went to her throat even as his warm hand moved inside her robe and brushed across her skin.

Christine's eyes closed in bliss and she forgot all about old betrayals or former travels as he took them on their own journey to eclipse all else, falling fast to their own fiery center, immediately to change course and soar toward the heavens…

x

Christine languidly stroked her fingers over Erik's damp chest and kissed the patch of his glistening skin closest to her. Again they lay close, this time covered by his cloak, which he had grabbed from a nearby chair and thrown over them to stem the chill once their heated bodies cooled.

At the Bal Masque he told her he had a great capacity for learning things quickly, and in these few short days her sensual man of mystery had lived up to his claim and reputation, often surprising her or keeping her guessing, quickly becoming expert in how to please her and what she enjoyed most. She only hoped she could also excel, as well as she pleased him with her voice, in learning to gratify all his desires through the expressions of her love. He appeared fulfilled each time they came together, but she knew there must be more involved. Despite wishing to forget the occasion that led to her abrupt awakening to such intimate acts, Christine often thought about the content matter of Chantel's revealing sketch…

Would he instruct her in that too? Would he even bring it up? How was she to broach such a subject that still caused the fire of embarrassment to blaze through her face? She was a married woman for pity's sake! If one judged by what took place in the marriage bed alone, she was his wife many times over. So when would this annoying girlish shyness disappear?

Yesterday, when he pleasured her with his mouth after they argued, she had never dreamed such an act existed - it had not been illustrated in that book and he had taken her entirely by surprise, as was becoming his trait…She thought about that. No. It had always been there. Recalling the past two months before they wed, even the night of their vows, she realized his propensity to astonish her had always been present, and was now appearing in this new area of their lives together…Upon recalling the great amount of pleasure he had given her, she now was certain she could do more to please him, and she wondered what other acts had not been shown in that book that might please them both.

Her face heated with the wicked thought and she cursed her infantile foolishness. "Erik?"

"Hmm?"

He sounded as if he were almost asleep.

"Do I please you?"

A number of wretched heartbeats passed before he answered.

"What kind of question is that?" His voice held that delicious thick, sensual quality, a low velvet rumble that always occurred after they made love. "You need not even ask, Mon Ange."

She pulled in her lower lip and ran her teeth along the swollen skin as she released it. "But, is there anything that … that you wish me to do for you?"

With his arm he gathered her closer to him. "To have you live with me, here in my home as my wife, fulfills my every desire for all I have dreamed. I once never thought that could be possible, and when it became apparent that it could happen, I never thought the day would arrive." He chuckled.

She gave a faint laugh in return. He had taken her question as a generality when she meant it in a much more intimate way. Perhaps it was best to drop the matter for now; there would be plenty of other opportunities…

_Coward._

She grimaced at her heart's taunting. Or was it her mind that urged her to take this path?

She cleared her throat. "But surely there must be _something_ I can do…"

He shifted to look at her, and put his finger to her lips to silence her.

"There is one thing…"

She waited in nervous anticipation to hear what he would say.

"Be a good girl and give me none of your impertinence…" he dropped a light kiss to the tip of her nose. "… as it is now time for your lesson."

She groaned inwardly at his quiet order - and that he had _again_ misunderstood - and scowled a little at his childish reference - when she was trying so desperately to behave as anything _but_ a child!- but the tender kiss that he then pressed to her mouth eased away a bit of her offense.

He moved from her and stood up, slipping into his robe. "I will return shortly." He looked at her, lifting his brow a little sternly. "Be ready to practice."

She watched his retreat then sighed and slipped into her own robe and the matching velvet slippers included with the abundant trousseau he had given her. As she tied the belt around her waist, she giggled a little at her recollection of their first days of lessons in this lair and his adamant order that she wear more than a nightdress. Thus clothed, she certainly wore less now. Or did he intend for her to dress first, in one of her beautiful new gowns? She wondered if any of them laced up the front then realized it no longer mattered. He had stated that he enjoyed dressing her too. Tomorrow she would put his proclamation to the test, eager to try on many of her dresses in order to choose the perfect one for her return. She found it difficult to believe that they had only one more full day together, but she comforted herself with the knowledge that she would come home with him each night. They would share every one of the evenings, and all of their mornings…

Picking up his cloak from the chaise longue, she draped it over her arm, smoothing her hand gently down its soft folds then looked for a place to hang it. Not seeing one, she again laid it in its original position, over a nearby chair. She really must clean this clutter, and he must let her, though she had no idea where to put half of it.

While she waited, she walked to the closest table. A long one, it stood against the wall and held a statuette of what looked like a slave boy in Grecian dress with one arm raised in a fist- she saw the hole there and realized at once it was a unique candleholder … a black vase bearing a beautiful red and gold exotic design … piles of books and papers … and so much odd miscellany she had no idea what most of it was used for. She fingered the odd bits of porcelain and gold, silver and bronze, as she walked along, then turned her attention above, to the cave wall. Arranged in layers of sketches reaching far past the table was the collage of her likeness.

So many poses, at every age … the small girl in the chapel, eagerly looking up with the hope of at last seeing a glimpse of her Angel … an older version of that child attempting to learn the dance…yet another sketch of the same child sitting on the window seat of the chapel, dejected and frowning, and she remembered the instances she had run, teary-eyed to her Angel and told him of the slights made against her by the other ballet rats.

There were many, many more images of Christine as a young woman, clothed, half clothed, but nothing indecent. Her eyes opened wide at a sketch of her sleeping in her old bed, the wisps of curtains that shielded her cot and the dormitory walls clearly discernible…

He had visited her while she slept - actually seen her and been there? It made sense of course, since he often had sung to her in her dreams, but somehow she never fully realized he had been there _watching_ her.

A warmth flushed her body. She wasn't upset but wasn't sure what she felt.

She heard the whisper of velvet as he joined her and she turned to look at him.

"You were actually there, in the room with me while I slept?"

He glanced at the sketch then back at her. "I stood behind the wall."

His expression was wary, which led her to realize the possibility…

"Did you ever see me unclothed?"

A hue of dull red flushed his face. He was blushing!

Her mouth dropped open. "You did!" A short, nervous giggle escaped before she realized she was laughing.

He quickly offered her a crystal goblet filled with what she knew contained lemon water.

"Drink this, my little minx. It was only briefly - last year. You took me unaware and slipped out of your wrapper before I knew what you were about or had the chance to look away. I did not realize … I only saw you from the back."

The flustered state of his words interested her as much as his unexpected confession. If she had been in nothing but her wrapper, she had been about to sponge bathe.

"And did you immediately look away, my Angel?" she asked sweetly.

He narrowed his eyes at her, eyes that gleamed. A flicker of a smile teased the corners of his lips. "Drink the water, Christine. The sooner we commence with this lesson, the sooner you may have your meal."

Evidently he had not.

The revelation did not upset her - he now knew every inch of her skin. And God only knew how much she wanted him then, no matter that she had not yet seen him. But it delighted her to observe the great Phantom of the Opera act as nervous as a schoolboy caught in a bit of mischief.

"My dark, dark Angel …" she teased, loving this moment, "Did you _ever_ look away?"

"Of course."

"Tell me then, how 'briefly' did you look? Five seconds? Fifteen seconds? Thirty …?" Her eyes widened considerably. "_One_ _full minute?_"

"Would you like me to carry you to that organ and set you down beside it or do you plan to get there of your own accord?"

She giggled and drank a sip of her water, turning back to look at the sketches. "I'm not angry."

"No," he said dryly though she heard amusement lace his tone. "I can see that you're not."

She drank more of her water, smiling as she studied the sketch. "More than a minute?"

Suddenly he moved toward her and took the goblet from her hand, setting it on the table. Before she understood what he was doing, he picked her up so that she was draped over his shoulder, her head hanging down and giving her a view of his velvet-clothed back. Holding her across the legs, he firmly swatted her backside.

"Ow!" She laughed, couldn't help it. "Put me down. I'll behave! I promise!"

He turned with her and began walking to the organ. "Perhaps it was a mistake to allow you to rest your voice these past five days…"

She could not keep the words from innocently tumbling out.

"Is that what we were doing, Maestro? Resting my voice?"

Her saucy reply earned her another firm swat. "Naughty child. You have become most undisciplined and even more insolent than usual."

"But I thought you decided you liked my new bold nature. That's what you said last night…"

He turned his head and lightly bit her hip.

"Erik," she pleaded, lifting her head, her laughter bubbling over in waves as she braced her hands against his back to get better leverage. Something caught her eye as he moved with her away from the edge of where the sketches began. She gaped in fascination. "Wait! No- really, Erik. Stop a moment, please."

Whether it was the serious change in her tone or the manner in which she began to squirm to get down, Erik did as she asked.

"What is it now, Christine?"

She moved past him and looked at the sketch she had partially seen once before. Curious, she lifted the parcel paper from where he had attached it to the wall with his many pages of parchment. "This was in Madame Giry's office the day I spoke with her," she said in amazement. She studied the child's drawing of a masked man in a cape, with wings at the back, the words "Mon Ange" scrawled above it. She blinked at him.

"It's _you_. But how … and who …?" Stunned, she could not think of what to say.

He seemed uneasy but gave a short nod. "The seamstress's daughter."

"From your night with the spirits?" She struggled to remember. "Tina. The little crippled girl."

"Yes."

"You have met her?" she breathed. The idea filled her with awe.

"No. I have seen her only in the present shadows."

She looked back at the paper in her hand. "And she drew you … _like this?_"

Amazed that the child had such aptitude to discern what she could not even begin to know, without ever having even _met_ _him_, Christine made a decision and looked up.

"I want to meet her, Erik. I want you to take me to see this child."

**xXx**


	38. Decided

**A/N: At long last…sorry for the delay. :) Thank you for the wonderful reviews and continued interest - (for this story and for the others)- please keep the comments coming! :) Again, I'm taking some artistic license here in forming my story to fit the times while keeping the theme a fantasy to fit with Erik's previous experience in APCC…**

* * *

**Decided …**

**Chapter XXXVIII**

.

"No."

His decision made, Erik studied his young wife's face, noting the stubborn tilt of her chin and determined gleam in her eyes. He recognized that look of challenge and wryly knew from experience he had an oncoming skirmish on his hands. A battle of wills - and she had proven to be a contender of equal fortitude. However, at the moment, he had no desire for verbal sparring.

He held out his hand to her. "Come, Christine. We must talk."

She hesitated, as if determined to stand her ground and insist on her way, then gave a little nod of consent and laid her hand in his. He drew her with him toward the organ and sank to the bench with his back to the instrument, pulling her down to sit beside him.

"If you're worried it will interfere with my duties at the opera, it won't. We could visit Tina Monday morning, before I'm needed for afternoon rehearsals," Christine began hopefully. "You must know where she lives since you walked there with the Spirit, as you told me."

"It would be best to put aside all such ventures at this time."

She pouted. "Why, Erik? What possible reason could you have for not wanting me to visit a small child?"

He let out a soft breath through his teeth; he had hoped to have more exclusive time with his bride before he must bring in external matters to disturb their haven of togetherness, but undoubtedly she would persist or sulk if he did not speak.

"There is something you should know before I take you above…" He looked at her hand that he held atop his leg, cupping his other hand over hers. Lightly he stroked the back of it with his fingers before again looking at her. "Madame has informed me that the Prussians have vacated the barricades surrounding the city. With the recent unrest and no governing authorities in control, Paris could be on the brink of a revolution."

She looked at him blankly and shook her head a little in confusion when he didn't continue. "And?"

"_And …_I cannot speak from experience, but I've read historical accounts of previous uprisings. None of them emerged or concluded without considerable turmoil, even bloodshed."

Christine tried to make sense of what he told her. Such cautionary words seemed distant, not a part of her world at all…

From the age of seven her life had been a never-ending stream of fables composed of lessons, practices, and performances to be cognizant of the fact that outside the opera house a harsher world existed. She knew little of its intrigues other than snippets she'd overheard in passing or what she glimpsed during the rare occasions she stepped outside its doors. Her brief excursions usually took her to a remote fringe of the city and the cemetery there, full of mythological statues guarding the souls of those long dead, among them her father. A land of dark fantasy in itself, many statues were replicas of those found within the opera house, giving silent tribute to stories of mystery and legend, and causing her to feel that the boundaries of the opera world had extended to that lonely stretch of stone and land.

The outside world, to her, was as steeped in magic and whimsy as the theatrical world in which she lived. The nation's affairs had never been a visible issue in her life, and she didn't see why they should make a difference to her routine of living now. She knew she was selfish to wish to forget such troubles truly did exist and live under a pretense that all was normal. But now she had Erik as her husband and at long last they lived out their shared dream, their perfect fairytale. She did not wish to hear or even _think_ of an incident that could harm what they'd found together. Better to wish away any outside difficulty and pretend it did not exist…

When in all reality, at this point, it didn't.

The knowledge boosted her conviction that in his constant desire to safeguard her, her dear Angel made too much of the situation.

"From what you've told me no uprising has begun, if it even will..." she said carefully.

Erik could see where this was leading and resolved to put a swift end to the subject before she could reach that destination.

"The city is a boiling pot of confusion, uncertainty and distrust. I don't want you out on its streets."

She brought her other hand up to cover his. "Mon Ange, these past months I have learned to confront the darkness even while I fear it. Surely you have seen that? I have learned to stand up to my adversaries. I don't wish to hide inside the opera house because of what _might_ occur. There is an equal chance it might not, and I prefer to believe that."

"Living in games of make believe will not eliminate the truth, Christine." His voice was firm.

She cringed that he had so easily read her intent to forget, and her words came a trifle insulted. "I'm not a child any longer, Erik."

"No, you're not. So cease in thinking like one."

His curt rejoinder had the opposite effect and made her all the more determined to stand her ground.

"Even should an uprising occur, what makes you think the opera house will be any safer?" she insisted.

"In all likelihood, it won't be. If the Commune should come into power and there's a threat to your safety, on that day you will stay below, protected, here with me."

"And what of the others? What of Meg and Madame and … "

She hesitated and he sneered. "The Vicomte?"

"Your brother," she countered softly.

"The de Chagny spawn is a noble, which makes him an enemy of the Communards and, yes, for that reason he would be in danger," he said the words without feeling, showing no remorse. "He would be wise to leave Paris before a revolution can start. The others will not be harmed."

She looked at him in concern. "_You're_ a noble," she whispered. "The true heir."

"No one knows that wretched truth but us and the detective I paid well to guard my secret. No one above regards me as anything more than a Phantom."

"Then …" She smiled in weak confidence. "There's no need for concern on my behalf either. I'll be safe."

His grip on her hand tightened. "I don't want you outside the opera house doors, Christine."

"But like Meg and Madame, I'm thought of as a commoner - a former chorus girl - I won't be in any danger. Surely an hour in the city before I'm expected onstage won't present a difficulty. If the situation doesn't change before next week, the likelihood that anything will happen while I'm outdoors during that one short hour is slight - practically nonexistent."

"Damn it, Christine!" He shot up from the bench and took a few steps away then whirled to face her, throwing his arms out to the sides. "Why must you make everything so bloody difficult?"

She also jumped to her feet. "Tell me the problem, Erik! If there's no present danger, why behave as if there is?"

"I never said there was no danger. There are perils apart from those connected with a socialist party. The city has undergone starvation. No doubt there has been looting and other criminal activities enacted by those desperate to survive."

Survive…? S_tarvation?_

She shook her head in curious puzzlement. "There has always been enough to eat…"

"Yes. Those living within the opera house have had enough because of Monsieur Girard's association with thievery and smuggling."

"_Smuggling_?" She blinked in surprise. "The chef - Pierre Girard? _That_ Monsieur Girard?"

He gave a tight nod. "His family has connections outside the city and Pierre has been part of that since the new year. A route below ground connects to hidden corridors that run within the walls near the kitchens, similar to the tunnel I carried you through when we escaped from the chapel."

Stunned that she was just learning all of this _now_, Christine recalled all she'd heard of the legendary Opera Ghost who for years had laid traps to waylay those who dared search for him.

"And you _allowed_ this?"

"I would not see you starve. There was no danger of discovery to me. The tunnels of this underground maze run widespread in all directions. The water canal that was used leads undetected outside the city and is far from my domain. A secret entrance there does give access to these chambers but one would have to know what to look for to find it."

"But..." She sank back to the bench in shock. "Why did you not tell me!"

"I saw no reason to trouble you. Very few knew of it. The matter was kept secret."

"And were you also a part of this?"

He scoffed. "I do not concern myself with the trials of the wretches who dwell above."

"But you just said -"

"Though I agreed to a truce with the new managers," he said more slowly, "I still consider this my opera house, not theirs. This has been my home for over two decades and I wish no ill fortune to befall it. If that meant I must turn a blind eye thrice a month so that those within were fed in order to see that accomplished, so be it."

Ill at ease, he averted his gaze to the still, green water.

Christine stared at his tall, erect form. Even barely clothed and disheveled he wore authority like a mantle. He had always considered himself a ruler, issuing orders to be obeyed through his notes and his powerful voice, ever since she could remember - the great irony being that with his secret and deserved title, he _did_ have that privilege to oversee matters since the family of his birthright were the patrons. But as he spoke the last she detected a softer note manifest in his voice. She sensed his purpose to give aid by not thwarting Monsieur Girard's plans ran deeper than just seeing to it that she had enough on her plate, and she wondered if his disturbing night with the Spirits had also led to his decision.

"Are you sure there wasn't more involved?" Her words came as quiet as his, her thoughts slipping out before she realized it. When he didn't respond, she continued. "You were Madame's friend in childhood, and I know, though you never told me, that you're the one responsible for Tina's mother reclaiming her job as one of the top seamstresses. Not Madame. Perhaps, on some small level, you have come to care…?"

"Do not fashion a few weak moments into more than they are, Christine," he said gruffly, never taking his eyes off the water. "This is no emotive fairy tale of redemption. I am not the evil rogue who grows a conscience at the end of the story. I bear no high regard for the wretches of humankind - I _never_ will - and I am certainly no benevolent angel."

"There are those who would disagree," she said quietly. "Myself. The girl, Tina -"

"_You_ - I would do anything for you…" As he spoke he absently motioned toward her with one arm, abruptly striding away. "As for the child, she is naive and blind to the truth."

"I don't believe that for a moment; I think she must be very intelligent. But a visit with her will no doubt prove who has formed the correct opinion."

"Bloody hell!" He spun to face her. "_Will you not let this go?_ I want _**no**_ _misfortune_ to befall you! Can you not understand that?"

"But nothing will happen to me! _**You **_will be with me and be my safeguard." She noted the muscles in his jaw tense as he drew close. "You promised, Erik. You told me that you wouldn't stop me from going above when I desired it and if I ever wanted to visit outdoors you would take me wherever I wished to go."

He gave a short, biting laugh, his eyes storm clouds of green sluiced with gray. "I _never_ promised to take you into the city."

Christine frowned, unable to contradict him, since it was true. She had hoped at some point to persuade him to join her outdoors for short excursions and had hoped to speak with him when he was calm and more receptive to hear her reasoning. But the moment had blown in on her with the strong gust of his temper and now she blindly pushed forward.

"You've come with me before. So tell me, what is the difference?"

"What do you mean? When have I _ever_ …"

"I know, Erik." Her eyes regarded him steadily, her voice now calm and certain though her heart beat fast in her desperation to convince him. "I know that every year I visited the cemetery on my birthday you were there."

He briskly turned away and she stared at his rigid back.

"You followed. I sensed you with me, watching over me. At first, when I was little and Madame would accompany me I wasn't certain … But on my fourteenth year, I knew. I cannot explain how. Madame was not with me then, but I sensed you. Of course, at the time I still thought of you as my Guardian Angel - one of Music. Once I knew you were a man, I was even more convinced that you followed me in past years - when I _didn't_ feel you near me on this last occasion I went. I felt so alone and abandoned…"

"When was this?" His eyes sharpened on her face as he slowly pivoted toward her again.

"After the Bal Masque. When you misunderstood all you'd seen on the rooftop and closed yourself off from me. I felt as if my world was shattering and needed to seek comfort and the knowledge of what to do from the only other person I've ever completely trusted and loved. My father."

Erik scowled, feeling helpless to rail at her when she spoke of the man, to whom he had vowed to protect Christine. A vow unnecessary once his feelings for her began to flourish inside his heart and the need to safeguard her had become personal and vital to his existence. He had assumed she would visit her father's grave on her birthday, as she had every year, except this one. To learn that she'd ridden there earlier infuriated him. He wasn't sure who he was more angry with. Her, for undertaking such a reckless venture alone at such a volatile time. Or himself, for the distance he had forced between them during those endless miserable days, thus allowing her to slip away without his knowledge.

Christine shook her head as if wishing to forget. "I don't want to think about then. But I do want you to come _with me,_ Mon Ange. I want you to sit beside me in the carriage and be a visible presence as my husband, no longer as the protective ghost who shadows me…"

Her dark eyes shimmered with love for him and he struggled to maintain his resolve after hearing her sweet words. "The matter is settled, my dear. You are not going anywhere but on stage and elsewhere that you are needed in the opera house."

"At least agree to see what occurs," she beseeched softly. "If Monday comes and there are no worrisome incidents with the socialists and all is well in Paris, surely during that one short hour we shall be away, nothing will happen then either."

He inhaled harshly, determined not to lose his fast dwindling patience a second time. With her new audacity and unending doggedness, he wouldn't be surprised if once she returned above she hired a carriage for that blasted hour, without telling him of her plans. A concise note of warning to the coachman delivered care of the Ghost should prevent the occurrence… unless she sought help from a lackey outside the opera house…

Such as the intrusive Vicomte.

He clenched his teeth. "We will speak no more of this. It is time for your lesson."

She let out a dejected little sigh at his terse words, her shoulders wilting, her brow furrowed in dismay. The distressing sight mellowed the hard edge of his irritation.

He shook his head in resigned lenience and moved toward her, of late finding it impossible to remain in an ill humor with his angel. Crooking his finger, he slipped it beneath her chin.

"I will consider it. Do not ask for more than that."

"Thank you." She barely nodded with a faint smile and stepped away to take her position at the organ. As she moved past, Erik looped his fingers around her upper arm and pulled her back to him in one smooth motion, his mouth going to hers and kissing her firmly. She gasped, her hands moving to cradle his head. Once he softly pulled away, she kept her eyes closed a fraction longer.

"What was that for?" she breathlessly asked, looking up at him.

"I need a reason to kiss my wife?"

Her smile came easier at his attempt at levity, but he could see past to her heart.

"Tell me what still distresses you so."

"It is nothing." She shook her head a little, breaking away from his steady gaze, making her words a lie.

He regarded her somberly. "Then tell me this, Christine. Why do you suddenly wish to avoid your lessons with me?"

She gave a little jump of surprise, her eyes flicking up to his, their cautious expression proof that he had guessed correctly.

"Promise you won't get angry?"

He cocked his brow. "It's as bad as that?"

"Not bad, not really. It's just…" She lifted her hands, stepping away as she sought for words. "I don't wish to lose any of what we've found this week. It's been so … perfect. More than I ever dreamed…"

He turned to look at her where she now stood by the bank facing him. "You think that resuming my role as your teacher will change what we've found here together?"

"It did before. That is, when we first made our feelings known to one another, you … changed." She shrugged in helpless explanation. "You've always been strict with me, I cannot imagine you any other way, nor do I wish it. You were right. It was your rigid approach that compelled me to become more than I ever dreamed I could be, what you always knew I would be … But you went beyond your usual austere attitude and became … harsh each time we met for lessons. Dreadfully so. In that awful room with those endless mirrors you acted as if you despised me."

"_Despised_ you?" He curbed a wry laugh and walked toward her, grasping her arms. "I was faced with more than was humanly possible to challenge - at least for a man of my ilk, who has lived a lifetime of solitude behind empty stone walls. To suddenly inhabit the same room, day after day, with the woman of my dreams was torture. Sweet. Desired. But torture nonetheless. I now admit it freely." At her apparent confusion, he went on, "You are stunning, mon amour, my constant temptress, even in your innocence when you are not aware. Each moment with you, lesson or not, soon became a grueling endurance of a passionate encounter on the verge of occurrence."

She moistened her lips, recalling those few breathtaking eruptions. "I wouldn't have minded…"

He chuckled. "Yes, my dear, quite. Among the more honorable reasons I could not continue to allow that to happen, not that I claim any shred of respectability, we would never have made progress in your training if I had made love to you then, Christine. The outcome that I once could only surmise, I now know in full, and the satisfaction, while extreme, is temporal. Once I have you in my arms, I never wish to let you go. Based on the experience of this week, it is expedient to say that had we succumbed then, you would never have been prepared to sing the lead on opening night. In all likelihood, I might have forgotten an opera even existed."

She felt a blush and grinned shyly, strongly doubting he could forget his own opera, but she acknowledged the truth of his words. Each time they came together kindled her appetite for more.

"And now?" She hoped he might tell her they could dispense with the lesson for one last evening and seek those more pleasurable avenues of entertainment. She loved to hear him play as much as he loved her to sing but her outlook _had_ become undisciplined after long days and nights of rapture. The thought of standing in a rigid position for hours of meticulous training paled in comparison to the warmth of Erik's lap.

"Now …" His hands slipped down her arms and clasped her hands. "You have accomplished what we have set out to attain from the dawn of your twelfth year, ma chérie_._ You are a star on the horizon, glowing brightly as you move toward your zenith, where you will long remain a source of continual wonderment to all who behold your beauty."

She smiled at his poetic words. "Papa once told me the stars could sing."

He lifted his brow in curious interest. "Another tale?"

"No, I don't think so. When he grew too ill to leave his bed, the minister came to visit. He told Papa of scripture that speaks of the morning stars singing together and the angels shouting for joy. Perhaps he did that to give Papa peace and prepare him for his eternal reward. But I like to believe it was more. Papa would so enjoy hearing stars that could sing…" The slight melancholy in her tone was a match to the bittersweet look in her eyes. "And here on the earth, we are heaven's mirror. I am your star, singing brightly for you, and you are my Angel, joyful in the triumph that is ours to share…"

He shook his head in tender amazement. "Such an imagination … Never lose that childish wonder, Christine. Never let the world seize it from you. It would be criminal."

He traced his fingertips along her jaw, his words sad but quiet with approval and she couldn't help but wonder about the boy in the cage who had been horribly robbed of so much. Despite that, he had managed to rise above his pitiful beginnings into a genius to be admired. Her Maestro. Her Angel…

She should be continually grateful that he singled her out on that night in her twelfth year, taking an interest in her voice and no other, creating her into his Angel of Music - and not yet _again_ attempt to find excuses to evade further instruction, no matter his previous ill treatment. He had made her into the dream of what she yearned for since her girlhood days when she sang and danced to her father's fiddle on the street corners. Still, she could not help the little wistful sigh that escaped. Bravely she attempted a smile.

"I suppose we should now return to our roles of teacher and student…"

Her lackluster response led him to believe that she hoped he still might change his mind. It did not please him that despite his earlier confession she still dreaded the night's lesson. Next to each other, music was their shared dream; he did not wish for her to begin to think of any part of it as a nightmare.

"Perhaps a change is needed," he amended thoughtfully, "now that our roles have also altered. Instead of no more than orders, perhaps … a reward. An incentive to guide you."

"An incentive?" A spark of interest lit her eyes. "What incentive…?"

"Yes…" He nodded slowly, drawing out the word while meditating on the idea. "If you manage your lesson well and give me no grief or argument, not even the slightest hint of rebellion, I will grant you whatever one thing you most wish for." He lifted her hand to press his lips against her palm.

Her body gave a little shudder, her face now glowing with anticipation. "Anything?"

He twisted his lips into a half smile. "Yes, my dear. Anything."

Given their earlier words, he could imagine what she would ask for. He still disliked the idea of her crossing the city at such an unstable time, but he doubted she would surrender with her latest mission, to meet the little waif, Tina. And despite his loathing for public places and speaking to the people who populated them, he would never allow her to journey alone.

"I think I like this idea of an incentive," she said with a secretive smile.

He raised his brow in dry acknowledgement. "No doubt. But it works both ways, Christine. If you give me less than the perfection I demand of this lesson, or if I must correct you more than three times, _you_ will give _me_ what I ask." He lowered her hand to press it against his chest and the beating of his heart. "Are you up to the challenge, Mon Ange?"

The swift change in his manner caused her own heart to skip a beat. Never breaking eye contact, she trailed the tips of her fingers down his skin to his sternum, where the lapels of his robe intersected, this time causing him to shiver.

"Always, I am up to a challenge with you, dear Maestro. Shall we begin?" She tilted her head in demure but flirtatious seduction and moved out of his view.

Erik kept his stare fixed ahead on the closed iron gate and took an unsteady breath, letting it out softly.

He imagined that Christine would find it amusing to learn that he was suddenly just as impatient for the lesson to end, but was not about to let on to his desire. As her Maestro, he must demonstrate control and prioritize. As her Angel he would skillfully lead her through the chords of his music…

As her husband he wanted nothing more than to take her against the organ where she now stood, a beautiful siren wrapped in shimmering yards of loose gray velvet he wished to tear from her smooth shoulders …

It was going to be a long lesson.

**xXx**


	39. Sing for Me!

**Sing for Me!**

**Chapter XXXIX**

**.  
**

Endurance.

How aptly Erik had described the recurrent theme of their most recent twilight lessons. Christine eagerly looked forward to this evening's change, hoping it might be the start of a new method of instruction entirely.

As she waited for him to gather one of his scores, her mind went to his earlier words of caution to journey into the city, and she came to a decision.

She watched her great Maestro take his place behind the organ, setting the papers before him. Determined to excel and win, giving him no cause to reprimand, she assumed the correct posture and waited for him to play the opening chord, the first in a series of her usual exercises...

The first minutes went better than Erik expected for her vocal respite of five days. As they progressed up the keyboard, he glanced her way and noticed she stood more rigid than he remembered from previous evenings of instruction, hardly relaxed as she needed to be for the notes to flow well. Clearly she was still apprehensive and he considered a method to help her relax, perhaps somewhat devious, yes…but at the same time he had begun to regret adding the incentive to the lesson - a reward that she could quite possibly win.

He had no desire to visit the crowded streets of Paris a third time in less than two weeks.

Catching her eye, he closed his lid in a slight wink, his lips tilting at the corners in a faint grin.

Stunned by his cavalier, easy behavior when in the role of _her __maestro_, Christine faltered on a five note scale. He lifted his brow in astonishment - though the devilish gleam in his eyes suggested that he was full aware of the effect his startling conduct would have on her.

"Again?" he prompted. "And that's one."

"That's hardly fair -"

"Do you wish to argue the point, Christine? Given what it will cost you?"

Blinking in disbelief, she closed her gaping mouth and lifted her chin. Why should she expect the clever and most wicked Opera Ghost to play fair and not be up to one of his many tricks?

"Again, Maestro." She forced a brief smile, narrowing her eyes at him, and nodded that she was ready to resume. As a pupil to the Master of Mischief for half of one decade, she had learned enough to present her own challenge…

Erik took Christine through scales and warm ups and into her solo in Act Four of the present opera. First he planned to go over areas of the Don Juan that needed slight adjustments, then introduce the opening song for a third opera that he would eventually present to the managers.

He was pleased to note that five days of rest had not weakened the excellence of her voice. He carried her into the second verse, his attention moving from the page of his opus to her radiant face. Her eyes closed as she became one with his music. He watched her hand lift to her sash and pluck at the tie…

…and stared in rapt fascination as the edges of her wrapper slightly parted once the sash loosened, revealing a glimpse of snow white cleavage amid soft twin mounds.

His hands slipped on the keys producing a raucous chord.

She opened her eyes, the look in them one of innocent surprise.

"Again, Maestro?"

"What are you doing, Christine?" he rasped quietly.

"Doing?"

"Do you plan to add a new movement to the scene by disrobing?"

She smiled sweetly. "The sash was too tight and digging into my ribs. It made it painful when I inhaled." She flipped the ties completely free and pulled her wrapper more firmly around her, but not before it flashed open a fraction of a second offering him a much more generous view. She retied the wrapper.

"I only wished to loosen the knot. I apologize if I distracted you, Maestro."

The naughty glint of mischief in her eyes made it clear she wasn't one bit repentant.

Ignoring the sudden pounding of his heart, he crossed his arms over his chest. "I could count this as an act of rebellion, with two strikes against you."

"Which would be cruel and unfair. The first strike should never have counted. You caught me off guard! I've never seen you wink at me like - like some vainglorious rogue!"

He snorted at the ill-suited moniker. A scoundrel, yes, he wore the title like a well-tailored waistcoat. But he could hardly be called vain.

"Think of it as a lesson to remember," he insisted. "You cannot allow outside circumstances to influence your behavior while you're beneath the spotlight. What if a hapless stagehand winks at you during a performance? Never mind the fool's fate, would you have faltered as you did?"

She shrugged with clear unconcern and flipped her long curls over one shoulder. "Since I have no interest in any stagehand, his action would have been inconsequential; likely I would have ignored him. As to what just happened, I was hardly being rebellious, Maestro. You often tell me I must become the character and live out the emotion. That song was extremely passionate, entailing the depths of what she feels for her lover. Perhaps without realizing it I was 'getting into character'.'"

She shrugged, her smile angelic, her mink eyes glittering like those of a mischievous fairy imp.

This was getting them nowhere and Erik realized the futility to continue in this vein. "Very well, Christine. I call a truce. No more tricks, no more distractions…"

"And we start anew, with no strikes against me?"

He nodded once. "Of course. My goal, after all, is to encourage your best performance on the stage and off of it. Now, shall we continue?"

Other than the bitter pill of her certain choice to take her on her foolish outing, either way, he would win. If she succeeded, he would still benefit from the magnificence of her performance, and if he should come out the victor in their little game, he would receive the prize of any wish. He pondered requesting that she forget the imprudent visit or stating that she never bring up the fool Vicomte and his family again…

Christine nodded toward him, silently congratulating herself for her small triumph. "I'm ready when you are, Maestro."

Either way, she was bound to win. If she succeeded, he must give her whatever she asked and she knew exactly what she wanted. And if she did not perform well, surely whatever he wished for would not be difficult to give, since her fondest hope was to please him in all things. He had quite easily molded her to all of his desires, both in and out of their bed. Bearing that in mind, she could not lose, whatever his choice…

The lesson progressed with Erik, ever watchful, more so than he had been in the past. Or perhaps she only imagined that. Despite the sensation of his hawk-like eyes, glittering bright and golden green and monitoring her every move, Christine managed to smother out all exterior influences as he'd taught - at this moment the lure of his commanding presence - and focus on the opera.

At long last he took his hands from the keys and swiveled on the bench to face her, his expression grim.

"Brava, my dear. It was an endeavor well executed."

She smiled brightly. "Then I have won?"

Erik couldn't help but faintly chuckle at her candid eagerness. "I do hope you have more regard for the mechanics of our lesson than to perceive what you've been taught as mere stepping stones toward the successful conclusion of a contest."

She wrinkled her nose at him and waved his critical words away, closing the distance. "Of course, but did I win?"

He somberly looked up into her eyes, reaching to take hold of her hands. "What do you think?"

She giggled and - with his sudden tug - fell into his lap. Her arms immediately looped around his neck. "I think you owe me a wish, Maestro."

"Ah, yes, a wish." He spoke without enthusiasm. "And what would my lady have?"

She tilted her head, considering. "From this moment forth, there is to be no more talk of lessons or rebellions or of going above - for any reason. I want to share this night and all of tomorrow with you and only you, in thought and deed, and _definitely_ with no more arguments between us. Starting now, with a soak in our delightful, secret underground spring."

He waited, lifting his brow when she said no more. "_That_ is what you wish?"

"Yes." She regarded him curiously. "You _want_ me to ask for more?"

He didn't answer, relieved in her choice of a prize of course. However, after this week's experience of his apparent inability to keep his hands off of her, he found it curious that Christine would feel the need to regard complete intimacy as a reward to be earned.

"And do you wish to forego your supper?"

"No, of course not. We can take it with us."

Soggy bread had no appeal. "I don't think that would be wise…"

"A small basket with fruit then. Apples. And wine ... perhaps cheese…"

He chuckled at the reflection of her request when she first braved his lair that long ago night after he'd sent her his farewell note, resigning as her teacher.

"By all means then, _chérie__,_ let us go and grant your wish."

She didn't move from his lap and he turned a puzzled look her way.

"You thought I would ask for you to take me to see the child, didn't you?"

He sighed. "Are you not breaking your own rule that we cease to speak of such things?"

"Yes, but only to express what needs to be said…" She rested her palm against his twisted cheek. "I still want to go see her, but I'll not manipulate you into taking me. I trust your judgment, Erik. I know your wish is to please me, but my safety is also your concern. You've watched over me since I was little and have always protected me. So I do want you to be the one to decide. I most certainly don't want you to be a surly companion because you were forced to accompany me due to our little game and thus hate every moment of our outing together. If we go, it will be your choice alone, _without_ the burden of granting me a reward."

He was surprised by her explanation and felt a twinge of shame at his own manipulative reward, had he won. Even if one choice did ensure her protection, and the other his sanity.

"If I agree to take you, I cannot promise that I'll not be surly, Christine. But I can assure you that I'll abhor the experience. For reasons I am sure you can now guess, I refrain from putting myself on display, and most certainly to those outside the opera house." He lifted a wry brow, motioning to the warped side of his face she still cupped. "A mask only invites further attention."

"Yes, I understand all of what you've been through, darling. But perhaps it's time to close the old chapter of your solitary life and continue with _our_ fresh and new tale?" Before he could respond with his usual curt reply that he could _never_ forget, she pressed her lips softly to his. Any immediate rancor caused by her gentle admonition died a quick death. "This time, I ask only that you grant my wish for the entirety of tonight and tomorrow - what will be our last sojourn of absolute solitude together."

"_This_ time?" His mouth twisted in amusement that the one opportunity he extended to include a reward she had swiftly decided would now become an ongoing addition to their lessons. She was his wife and most decidedly all woman, but she still loved to play…

Then again, so did he.

"There will be other opportunities, won't there," she stated quickly. "The addition of a reward helps motivate me to give my best. Therefore, I think they should become a permanent part of our lessons."

He brought his attention up from lingering on her lush curves and dwelling on the various means he planned to grant her wish. If her current selection of a prize was the precedent of rewards to come, he would gladly surrender all future wins.

"Very well, I will also grant that wish."

She brought her face close, pressing her forehead to his with an endearing grin. "I warn you, my dear Maestro husband, I intend always to win. So I ask, are _you_ up to the challenge?"

"I am up to all challenges you present, mon amour. Tonight and tomorrow and for all time to come … shall we proceed?"

His tone was silken, his hands warm at her waist as he helped her rise from his lap, and Christine shivered a little in pleasure from the intent look he gave, anticipating the delicious fruition of her hard-earned reward.

.**  
**

**xXx**

.

The morning of her return to the theater came as she knew it must.

While Christine dressed she basked in the memories of her time with Erik. Delightful and satisfying could not begin to encapsulate the experience. She still felt traces of his warmth, where his skin had recently molded against hers as they lay in their bed, his spicy scent embedded in her flesh and hair, and when he came up behind she couldn't help press her back to his chest, wishing they never had to part. They would reunite after tonight's performance, of course, but even a day's separation from her new husband seemed too much to bear.

He did not respond as she hoped, by slipping his arms around her waist and holding her tightly against him, but instead remained motionless. She drew her brows together in confusion at his continued silence.

"I have something for you," he said quietly, his words sounding like an apology.

Before she could ask, she felt him step back. Something cold and metallic slipped against her neck, its intrusive chill dripping down her loose chemise to the valley between her breasts. She shuddered with the shock of it and fingered a chain of gold links that he now fastened at the back.

"Erik…" He knew her dislike for such trinkets due to how a few tendrils of her wild hair always managed to painfully become caught in the clasp, on the rare occasions she'd been required to wear a pendant for a costume. "Why are you giving me this?"

"I vowed I would not cast a pall on our last day of complete togetherness, due to your wish, and I waited to act. But I can remain silent no longer…" He turned her around by the shoulders, the look in his eyes cheerless but determined. "You will never agree to leave them behind and I would not wish you to."

"Leave what behin …" At his glance past her hip, comprehension dawned. "Oh, no… Not my beautiful rings." She covered her jeweled hand with the other. "Erik - you _cannot_ mean to take my rings from me!"

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous." His tone came on edge though he tried to reason. "Christine, you cannot go above wearing rings on your wedding finger without drawing notice and casting more speculation and suspicion upon you. And this time, they would be correct in the assumption - that you are wed."

"I don't care! Maybe I **_want_** them to know."

"Do you, Christine?" His voice came low and steady but firm with resolve. "Do you wish to field the endless questions of journalists and chorus alike? You are now the lead, a star, and newsworthy to the populace. If you revealed a secret marriage, how long before they demand to know the identity of your husband? How long can you keep **_that_** secret from them?"

"As long as I need to," she insisted. "I **_can_** keep a secret, Erik. You should know that by now."

"Yes, but journalists are cunning and shrewd. It would not be long before they picked you apart to uncover the truth." He shook her a little to try to dispel the flame of stubbornness in her flashing brown eyes. "You have said you understood, that you know I have your best interest at heart always..."

She tried to look away but he wouldn't let her.

"No - listen to me. You've been gone an entire week, Christine, the second time to disappear after an opening. The current explanation of visiting relations will not matter one whit if they should see those rings. The Vicomte is the only other man in whose company you've been seen. If asked, he might tell the truth - that you are not his wife. Worse, he might go along with their suspicions, foolishly thinking to help you, and pretend to be your husband - _and that I could not bear!_"

"And I cannot bear this!" She valued her privacy but did not wish to treat her marriage to Erik as if it were something of which to be ashamed. If it were her decision alone, she would shout it proudly from the opera house rooftop! "How long must we keep our marriage a secret? A week? A month? _Several_ months?"

He shook his head wearily. "At this time, I cannot say. There are the current politics of the city to consider as well. It would not be wise if a member of the potential Commune were to realize your new state of affairs. Many keep their status secret, so it is impossible to know who to trust. One look at those rings and the truth would be apparent to all. You could be in danger, and I will do nothing to place you in peril!"

Sadly she looked down at her beautiful rings that her beloved Angel had designed. Of gold and one large diamond, the craftsmanship was of high quality, unique, certainly nothing the average worker could afford.

"I don't like this. I wish things were different…"

"As do I," he said quietly and tilted her chin to look at him. "The need for such secrecy will not last forever."

"Can you promise me that?" she insisted. "Can you promise that soon I'll no longer have to hide the fact that you're my husband? Can you, Erik?"

"You think I want this?" he asked incredulously. "Christine, if it were my choice, if I had no fear of repercussions toward you, even _danger_, I would announce the news of our nuptials from the stage to the entire opera house and not hesitate to claim you publicly as my wife! To receive the gift of your eternal devotion is the highest honor I will ever know."

His fierce, quiet words brought a slight upward tilt to her trembling lips that disappeared once he lifted her clenched hand in his. Gently he forced her fingertips from digging into her palm and straightened her stiff fingers, sliding the circles of gold from the one that proclaimed she was his wife, then he kissed where the rings had been. She tried not to show her dismay as he slipped the rings over the chain where they fell into her chemise. Tears pooled in her eyes, and one dripped from her lashes to land on the bared knuckle of her fist she stared down at. She pressed it to her bosom and the hidden rings.

"This doesn't feel right at all," she whispered as he again fastened the chain. Watching him remove from her finger the proof of what bound them together brought sheer dread, as if it were an omen of separation to come.

He again took her naked hand and placed her palm hard against his chest. "The promise of what the rings symbolize - my love and commitment to you - will never waver, mon amour, whether you wear them on your finger or concealed, over your heart. And each night, I vow to return them to their rightful place."

"Only to remove them again come morning," she sullenly predicted.

"At this time, yes." His voice was hollow but unyielding. "It must be done, Christine."

She nodded once, her eyes downcast. He drew her to him and held her close and she worked to control her dismay and cease in acting so childish. She didn't want this...but neither did he, and it was unfair of her to make him feel worse than he already did. Reassuring herself that the delay would not last forever, she pulled away, forcing a smile when his beautiful, concerned eyes searched hers.

"If I linger any longer I'll never get on stage in time for the afternoon rehearsal, and I don't want to risk Madame coming to hunt us out again," she said with a little laugh, her cheeks going hot with the memory. "I'll need your help with lacing my corset. I don't think the peasant gypsy dress is the statement I wish to present as the opera's new diva."

"Of course." He smiled, his eyes a mirror to the wistfulness in hers. He turned her gently around and worked with the ties of the corset, pulling on them.

With her palms pressed to the wall, she shook her head when he quit. "You'll have to do better than that, Erik. Like you did yesterday. I need to actually fit into the dress."

"It is tight enough. I do not care for articles of clothing that bind you so securely as to impair your breathing, as it did yesterday. Surely that must make it difficult to sing."

"At times, but what else is a diva to do but be fashionable?" she quipped.

"Simple." To her shock she felt him swiftly pull free the laces he had just gathered. "Dispense with the corset." He pulled the stays away from her ribs and tossed the device to the floor.

"Erik!" She turned to regard him in shock. "I can't go above without one!"

"I beg to differ." His eyes made a pragmatic survey of her form from breast to hip. "You are slender in all the ways that matter to make that contraption unnecessary." She continued to gape and he went on. "It is my opera, the costumes are my design, and if I say Aminta need not wear such a restricting piece of finery, she will not. The seamstress can make any necessary adjustments to your wardrobe."

"But the dress! My _day_ dress."

"Any of them will fit without your need to be pinched and bound by unnecessary wiring." He pulled a sapphire blue woolen from the wardrobe. "Wear this one."

"Erik." She crossed her arms against her chemise. "Really, I must protest."

He lifted his brow. "You no longer like the dress? When you tried on the entirety of your wardrobe for me yesterday, you showed a particular liking to that one."

She remembered, also remembering his eyes, enigmatic pools of jade that never seemed to grow weary of watching her. But rarely had he offered a word, except when asked an opinion, and those had come brief.

"I love it, but…" She blew out a resigned breath, stopping mid sentence when she noted the obdurate expression in his glittering eyes. She despised the corset just as much and suddenly wondered why she fought to keep it. "Fine. I'll wear the dress without it, _if_ it will fit." She took the butter-soft woolen and pulled it over her head. "There. Are you satisfied?"

"Quite." He grinned and without her request to do so, again turned her by the shoulders to do up the tiny buttons at the back, his fingers now deft with the experience.

Christine took a relaxing breath as he rapidly worked up her spine, surprised the gown fit well without the constricting undergarment. She shivered a little at the sudden touch of his lips at her nape.

"Tell me, my dear, is that not better?"

She nodded with a defeated smile and faced him. "Much. But if I never again wear a corset, the day may come when I won't fit into any of my beautiful dresses. Especially now that I've quit the dance."

"Let's take that as it comes, shall we?" His expression was mysterious, the quirk of his smile elevating her pulse rate. "One moment, and I will take you above."

Curious, she watched him leave their bedchamber then followed him to the main room and the table holding the mini stage.

He pulled the box from beneath and selected the white half mask.

She put a staying hand to his shoulder.

He let out an impatient breath.

"Christine, we have talked about this…"

"Not that one."

At his narrowed gaze of confusion, she lowered herself beside him. She hesitated before putting her hand inside the crate, recalling the promise she'd made. Even if she _was_ hurt and angry when she had spouted the words, she would honor them and never again give him reason to doubt her.

"May I?"

He gave a curt nod and she pulled a black bandit mask from among the others, handing it to him. "It requires no paste," she said by way of explanation.

"The white one will not take long to apply. The paste is already mixed -"

"I don't like it when you use that glue on your face. There's no reason for it. Above, you rarely let anyone see you, and when we're alone together there's no reason for a mask."

His jaw hardened as if he might argue but she held firm in her resolve. She didn't want his frail skin suffering further damage by that awful paste again. In these seven days, without a covering, the rawness had completely healed.

"Please, Erik. You chose my mode of dress. Allow me to choose your mask."

After a moment he gave a terse nod and took the black mask from her. He moved to a table with a round standing mirror surrounded by three wigs. Taking a black one from the first stand, he spared her only a brief glance, noting her disgruntled look.

"_This_ _**is**_ necessary." He pulled the wig snugly over his golden brown locks.

"As necessary as my corset."

"I have told you, it helps to cover a part of my deformity the mask does not hide."

"The corset helps to cinch in my waist for the dresses."

"Utterly unnecessary for your form, perhaps even harmful." He slipped on the mask, snapping the band into place then briskly adjusting the hairpiece.

"As is that wig, though I wouldn't call it harmful. Only an encumbrance."

He whirled to face her, gracefully sweeping his arms out to the sides. "I have _no __choice!_ Do you not understand that?"

"You do have a choice, but you've decided on the _wrong_ _one_."

"Chri-stine…"

At his warning tone, she lifted her chin. "You are allowed to choose all that I wear but I'm not permitted to give an opinion to your preferences? That hardly seems fair…"

She smiled serenely and glided toward him, noting the black leather gloves he picked up.

"Do you wear those so often because your hands are cold?"

He sighed impatiently. "And what precisely is wrong with my gloves?"

"Nothing. They're quite dashing, really. Only let me pose a question to you, Mon Ange - day after day, would you rather touch the warmth of my hand or the cold material of my glove?"

"Touché, my dear." He regarded her warily as she came close, his lips quirking at the corners. "Is there anything more you wish to analyze about the fine points of my appearance?"

She slipped her hands up to cradle his jaw. "One last thing…" she looked deeply into his eyes. "I love you, Erik, even with all your pointless idiosyncrasies that make moments like this one more difficult to achieve..." And drawing his head down she tenderly pressed her lips to his.

Suddenly he crushed her to him, clutching a handful of her curls at the nape and moving her so that the mask did not press into her flesh. His heated mouth became a welcome invasion to her eager lips, as tongue fiercely tangled with tongue...

Abruptly he pulled away and pressed his brow to hers. "God, what you do to me, woman! Why _now_, when you are due on stage so soon?" he groaned. "Your fire and spirit make me forget all else and wish to seduce you where you stand."

She felt breathless by his low, fervent words and the sudden flames that blazed in his eyes. "If only there was a shortcut to the theater," she whispered, her heart racing as much from his words as by his actions.

He hesitated then smiled wickedly. "Perhaps there is."

"Then I think we should take advantage of it, don't you?"

For an answer, he swept her off her feet and into his arms, swiftly moving back with her toward their bedchamber.

.

**xXx**

.

With little time to spare, Christine and her Phantom took the shortcut to the main level of the opera house in what seemed half the usual time, leading to a corridor different than the one behind the mirror of her dressing room. The passage involved more walking, some of it steep, with none of the journey taken by boat or horse, but Christine felt any luxury sacrificed was far worth every additional moment she and Erik had stolen together.

He stopped as they approached a small wall of wood and turned to her. "This leads to the back of the cloakroom. Take care no one sees you. I must leave you here, but I will return for you tonight, after the performance."

"I'll be counting the minutes," she assured him softly. "Every song I sing tonight, I will sing for you."

His eyes, a mystical jade, glowed with adoration for her.

The bitter knowledge that the time had so suddenly come to part after spending almost every hour of the last six days with her new husband caused Christine to release his hand and throw herself at him, her arms going around his neck as she kissed him desperately. He brought his hand not holding the torch against her spine, enfolding her in his cloak, and kissed her with equal passion.

"You must go," he said after a moment, pulling back.

"I know," she said sadly, taking sweet refuge in one last stolen kiss before stepping from his arms. "You will come for me directly after the last curtain call, without delay?"

"Need you truly ask, Christine?" He chuckled softly. "Nothing will keep me from you the moment your obligations are met."

Perhaps she would feel differently once the performance began and she took center stage, but in this moment she never wished to leave his side, even to sing.

He pressed his bare hand against the wall, and she watched as a panel silently slid from view. Erik helped her as she crouched through the low opening half the height of a wardrobe and twice as narrow, instantly noting she was blocked from detection by a row of coats.

She turned to him once more, finding it difficult to go. He again took her hand in his warm one and slowly kissed it. "___Je t'__aime_, _Mon __Ange__ de __la__ Musique_," he whispered before releasing her...

...and then he was gone, the paneling swept back into place, again to become part of the wall, as if an opening had never been there.

Christine blinked back a foolish rush of tears, knowing she must quickly accustom herself to this routine, what now would be the customary program of her days. Only the nights were hers to spend with Erik, but at least she did have those. With a wistful little sigh, she stiffened her shoulders and prepared to meet her public.

Peeking out from between two long fur coats, she was relieved to see the room empty of servants and all other humanity. She darted out of her area of concealment, smoothing her hair as she moved through the cloakroom door and took the corridor that led to the stage.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Aw, honeymoon's over. Darn. But that doesn't mean the lovin' stops. ;-) Thank you for reading, favoriting, alerting, and especially thank you for the great reviews! :) Please keep the comments coming - it's the only way I know if you're still on board or still like this story.  
**


	40. But the Soul Obeys!

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! (note - I put this in Come to Me also, so if you read there, this note is a repeat since I have different readers here: I've lately gotten so many requests for the sequel of The Treasure, here, at my Youtube and deviantART accounts, and elsewhere - and since there is much interest, I have embarked on the story at long last. That said, expect The Claim to start being posted some time this month if you're one of those who wrote me. :) I often tend to work more on stories that I see have greater interest - it inspires me to write in it, and reviews, PMs, etc., are all that let me know that - so if you're interested in a story be sure and let me know, at least somehow (if you're review-shy). Else I might leave it for awhile if it appears interest has faded (not meaning I would abandon it for good) - but I would put it aside for a bit to work on those that I can tell readers want to see more of.) Just to let you know how I do things. :) **

…**And now…**

* * *

**But the Soul Obeys!**

**Chapter XL**

.

Courage nearly abandoned Christine as she stood near the stage, as yet unnoticed behind a high pillar of flame that partly composed the set, and watched the rehearsal. Madame Giry sternly instructed two new girls to float like swans and not gambol like monkeys. Christine grinned. How many times had she heard that! A different twist to the words, but always the same message. Such familiarity was comfort, soothing to her nerves…

But not all of them.

A little anxiously she wondered if anyone would now be able to tell at a glance that she was no longer an innocent. Was there anything different about her expression? Her eyes? Her face? Her skin? She had intently studied her reflection this morning, trying to see herself as others would, but had been unable to perceive anything except that she looked sleepy.

She wished she could speak with Meg before revealing her presence, but her friend was at the far end of the line and presently the recipient of her mother's strong scolding. If only Christine had the security of a public announcement with regard to her marriage it would make things so much easier to bear. She saw merit in Erik's explanation of why their consecrated union must remain secret, of course, though she hadn't wanted to, and never would like the fact. She certainly didn't want any of these men to look at her and spot some indefinable something that would lead them to realize she was no longer a virgin. They might then think her as loose and promiscuous as some of the chorus and she didn't need the added nuisance of warding off their advances; she certainly hoped Joseph Buquet couldn't tell!

She swallowed hard and nervously moistened her lips. Where was that new quality of boldness and self-assurance when she needed it?

A sudden awareness settled over her, much like the soothing brush of warmth from a lit hearth after coming in from the cold outdoors - an expectant, still calm that made her senses tingle. She didn't need to look up to know; but wishing to see a glimpse of her beloved, even if only his shadow, she lifted her eyes.

In the darkness high above and to the left, she spotted the flutter of the bottom of his cape at the edge of a catwalk and smiled brightly, secure in the knowledge that he was there with her. She could do this…

"Miss Daae has returned!" a dancer suddenly announced, pointing toward her.

At the herald's strident cry, everything came to an abrupt halt. The managers turned from their huddle with Monsieur Reyer, to see her standing at the stage wing, and quickly approached.

"I hope no worse for wear," another dancer snidely remarked, and a few of the chorus giggled.

"Ah, Miss Daae, have you come back to work then?" Firmin asked with a condescending lift of his brow and superior twitch of his mustache.

"Where precisely have you been?" Andre insisted on the tail end of his partner's words.

Christine regarded them, a little startled to be so suddenly pounced upon, still feeling much the insignificant chorus girl and little like a star. She still wasn't sure how to speak to the managers or behave with them in this role so new to her…

But she would not be cowed by their badgering again.

Drawing composure around her like a shielding cloak, barely aware she had done the same with the lightweight forest green one she wore, she offered a polite nod of greeting and a contrite if cool smile.

"My family needed me."

"So Madame Giry told us. I do hope this will be the last of these sudden emergencies, my dear." Firmin's voice was mild, but the threat in his dark eyes made it clear that future disappearances would not be tolerated. "We cannot run an opera if the lead decides to vanish at every turn."

"Yes, quite," Andre added. "Not good for business you understand."

Firmin gave a little roll of his eyes at Andre's obvious statement.

"Yes, of course …" She hesitated with how to address them and settled for Madame's method, civil but reserved - "Gentlemen." She wondered if she would now be reprimanded for her insolent tone, but continued, feeling a little thrill of command that straightened her spine." I do not anticipate further problems that would require my absence. Matters have greatly improved..."

Erik told her that if the Commune came into power, he would keep her below, the only incident she could foresee that would bring about her third disappearance. But surely if by some stretch of fate the socialists did gain supremacy, the opera house would close its doors since the owners catered to the aristocracy and those of like standing. Those men would be in danger and not inclined to visit or remain within the city. She darted a glance across the theater to the royal box, where the king and his entourage sat when they attended, their last visit two years ago, in the days before Prussia's invasion of France.

"Then your cousin no longer lies on his deathbed?" Andre asked in some surprise.

"Oh, no. He had a miraculous recovery from all that afflicted him. Needless to say, I was delighted to share this time with him and be on hand to witness such … astonishing results." She stifled a giggle at her double entendre, thinking of her true companion this past week.

Firmin and Andre exchanged an odd look, the muskrat and the barn owl. Christine barely stifled a second giggle at her mind's vision of the two in those roles. Their expressions did resemble drawings in a book she'd once seen, though Andre looked more like a chimpanzee…

"We did find it most peculiar that you should leave so suddenly, and again, after the last curtain call," Firmin's eyes narrowed in speculation, clearly not willing to let the matter drop. She wondered if they suspected whose company she really kept.

"I did first make an appearance and give an interview to the reporters," Christine said sweetly, willing the two men to stop prying. "Surely you must remember, since you were there."

"Yes, yes - but you left without informing us," Firmin stressed, "your _employers_. And as such we must insist that you never do so again."

"It was my understanding that Madame Giry apprised you of the situation that same night. And you _did_ have my understudy to go on in my place, so I don't understand the problem…"

The two men again looked at one another in grave surprise.

_Careful, my Angel…_

She gave a little shiver to hear Erik's faint whisper caress her ear so that only she could hear him.

"Ah, Christine, there you are." Madame hurriedly glided forward, taking her arm and moving with her as if the owners weren't flanking her and closing in. "Gentlemen, if you'll excuse us."

"Really, Madame, I must protest -" Andre huffed.

"We have not yet finished speaking with Miss Daae -" Firmin interrupted.

"As you have said, we have an opera to present, messieurs, and Miss Daae is needed in rehearsal," Madame smoothly put an end to their gruff demands. "If you have anything further to discuss perhaps you should take it up with her manager. I am certain he will be most interested to hear any additional instructions you have to give."

"Er, that's not necessary," Andre quickly put in behind them. "I do believe we have expressed all that really needs to be said at this time…."

Madame and Christine shared a conspiratorial glance and Madame slightly shook her head.

"You should not goad them," she said beneath her breath to Christine.

Christine shrugged, feeling only a bare morsel of shame to act so imperious. "I know. I couldn't help myself. They can be so annoying."

A smile teased her former ballet instructor's lips. "Like teacher, like student, eh? Well, it was bound to happen after so much time spent in his company. Only do all of us a favor, my dear, and confine your displays of temperament to those inside your imagination. We don't need a second ghost to make demands and haunt the building…" Christine quietly giggled and loudly Madame called to a buxom brunette standing near the dancers. "Josette, you may return to your former position in the chorus now that Christine has returned. Girls!" She clapped her hands together. "In position. Christine, take your place for the beginning of the second act…"

Madame's instructions continued as Monsieur Reyer tapped his baton on the podium for the musicians' attention, and the rehearsal resumed.

With no time to speak to her friend, Christine moved to her spot at the opposite end of the stage, only able to exchange smiles with Meg as she passed her by. She pretended not to notice many of the girls' haughty and scornful glances, Josette's among them, or the looks of curious envy directed at her outfit. Slipping out of her cloak she laid it over a nearby prop. She stood silent, awaiting her cue, lifting one hand to her bosom as she briefly fingered her Angel's tokens of love through the soft woolen bodice.

.

**xXx**

.

From high above, Erik saw Christine's telltale action as she touched the area between her breasts and thought he could hear her wistful sigh, though with the orchestra now playing that was impossible. He wished he could use one of many ropes attached to the pulleys to leap down from the flies and sweep her into his embrace. To erase the melancholy from her eyes and publicly proclaim to those arrogant fools that she was his wife and belonged to him. To demand from every one of them the respect owed her…

Such a short time apart and already Erik missed having his bride beside him. After over two decades of absolute solitude, he had thought he would require time to adjust to her constant presence in his home; he had been wrong. Except for the few occasions he had needed distance when upset, to have her near as a stable part of his life had become what was real to him, her absence the change he must learn to cope with. How could someone move so completely into his heart and soul and home that he could not fathom his existence without her there, could not conceive how he had survived all the heretofore empty years without her always by his side?

Earlier, he noticed her eyes search for him and had stepped slightly forward in reassurance, so she would be sure to see, warmed by the acknowledging smile she gave. With approval, he had witnessed her spirit as she spoke to the prying managers. Her first taste of power, and it amused him to see how she enjoyed the switch in her status, recalling her having told him on more than one occasion that she was weary of everyone telling her what to do. However, he must caution her not to carry such moments to the extreme; she was still a novice in her new role and must learn when to lunge and when to parry, lest the situation swing out of her control and she be regarded as an imminent pariah. _That_ - to see his Angel become another Carlotta in behavior, God forbid, he could never conceive happening.

He watched the rehearsal, noting the small changes Antoinette had made to the choreography, necessary with the missing dancers. She had not yet filled Christine's place, and another was missing, the short brunette in front of the line…that's when he noticed. Chantel was also gone. Pleasantly surprised to realize the absence of the redheaded harridan, he could almost forgive the poor representation of his work displayed in their pathetic excuse for a dance and winced when two girls lost sense of their space, almost bumping into one another during a cross twirl. Good grief. Where had she found such ballet rats so green to the dance? He wouldn't be surprised if they were utterly new to the profession.

All else faded from significance when his Angel's voice softly trilled through the theater as she entered the makeshift set of the village and the gypsy dancers bade her exuberant welcome, each in their own way. He sensed her nervousness, at first, but soon she relaxed in the role, her ease apparent in the smooth warmth of her voice, so rich, yet clear as polished crystal.

Four times Antoinette stopped rehearsal, twice to correct, twice to incorporate minor changes. Three times Monsieur Reyer brought a halt to the music. None of those times for any blunder made by Christine, Erik was pleased to note. She was perfection, once she again grew accustomed to her part of Aminta. But as Erik observed the practice and they moved to another song at Antoinette's order, a surge of jealous possession impacted him with the force of being thrown headfirst into a stone wall - to confront what he already had known…

Ubaldo Piangi strutted toward Christine and took her hand, kissing it … later to embrace her.

Erik had seen this played out in performance on opening night and had cringed then, but now … now _she __was __his __wife!_ And soon he knew would come the dreaded kiss - _two _of them - a stage kiss, yes, he knew that. Of course he knew that! He had lived in the theater almost his entire life for God's sake. But those were _his __wife's_ lips and _her_ gentle fingers and _her_ warm arms and he wanted no cretin's obnoxious mouth or encroaching hands to touch them - to be anywhere near what belonged solely to him!

Letting a growl escape beneath his breath, he clenched his own hands that were sweating even without the leather gloves. He knew that in an opera of this nature, romance and passion were moments written to be played out - expected by the audience - hell, he had written the damned story! At the time, he had planned to take Piangi's place … and now the fat Italian oaf dared to rake his meaty paws all over his Angel - _his_ _**wife**_.

Erik wished for his lasso … a warning issued, that would be all. No true return of accidents or tricks. But in the earlier fiasco of dressing, with Christine examining and judging every article of clothing he donned, he had not tucked the rope into his cloak and had forgotten completely about it after their stolen interlude.

He shut his eyes, unable to watch the wretched debacle being played out on stage, then opened them, unable not to.

Damn it! He must keep these roiling feelings in check, must parcel the nauseating embrace into its proper slot of the theatrical - nothing more than a melodrama of pretense - with Christine giving token affection devoid of feeling to a lead - though she was sure damn well improving at displaying emotion in her role as he'd taught…

Prepared to resume the role of Opera Ghost and bellow from his lofty perch that there were other scenes that needed much more work, Erik was saved the trouble when Antoinette tapped her cane, calling a break for lunch.

Debating whether to swing down before all present and grab Christine to secret her away and into his arms, or to confront her furtively in her dressing room and tell her she was playing the part too damned well - _then_ pull her into his arms - he did neither when he saw Meg happily scurry toward her. The twin fires of desire and outrage cooled slightly when he realized she would want time to reunite with her little friend…

With a frustrated sigh, he decided to give her that. It would be wise to calm himself before seeing her. The last thing he wanted at this moment was an argument with his bride.

.

**xXx**

.

Christine's fingernails bit down, she hoped painfully, into Piangi's thick shoulders.

"If you ever try to push your tongue down my throat again I'll bite it clean off," she whispered inches away from his slack mouth, somehow maintaining Aminta's sweet, besotted smile for the scene.

Piangi awkwardly lumbered back to full upright position, bringing her with him, clearly shocked by her reaction. Had he expected her to flutter her lashes or fall at his feet and worship him for his great prowess - of which he did not have an inkling? For the barest flicker of an instant, Christine felt sorry for Carlotta who daily put up with his garlic-laden breath and sloppy kisses.

Relieved that Madame called an end to the morning rehearsal, Christine wiped her hand across her mouth and moved away from him.

It was all part of being the lead, she reminded herself again, as she did after every disgusting encounter with the annoying tenor. Today he'd been bolder and she wondered if Josette had allowed such advances that he thought he could try them with Christine.

Oh, how she wished for Erik to come sweep her away and take her in his arms, so as to lose herself in _his__ kisses_ that often tasted of wine or brandy or cloves or some other sweet herb. Though even if they were garlic-laden, she didn't think she would mind. Not if they were his lips on hers and his tongue down her throat...

Turning to see if he still watched from the flies, she felt her arm grabbed. Christine swung her head around in surprise.

Meg grinned, acting relieved to see her as if Christine had only just appeared and not been on stage for the last three hours.

"Come," she said. "We must talk."

Christine had no choice but to follow or get her arm yanked out of its socket.

"Where are you taking me?" She laughed, happy to see her friend, though somewhat anxious about what their talk would entail. They had been as close as sisters for years, sharing secrets in confidence, and Christine now recalled Meg's post wedding words of wanting to know everything that took place.

Something she would never relate, perhaps only a tenth of it. Perhaps.

Giggling and shushing each other when the odd curious glance was directed their way, she followed her friend upward as their location became clear, and they moved up the last flight of spiral stairs through the door and out onto the roof.

The breeze was crisp, scented with aromas of earth and sky and freshly baked bread from the café adjacent. The sun shone bright, and for a moment Christine stood with eyes closed and arms slightly lifted by her hips, palms raised, allowing the light and air to welcome her back in sweet caress.

"I thought you might enjoy this, having been deprived of it for so long," Meg laughed. "I missed you, mon ami. Things are so dull in the theater without you there."

Christine opened her eyes and smiled at her friend, feeling a bit sorry for Meg that she couldn't honestly return the sentiment. With Erik to fill her days and nights, she had never once missed the world above or wished for any company but his.

"Thank you for bringing me here. It's such a beautiful afternoon. The weather has at last grown somewhat warmer. It will be nice when spring finally arrives…"

"Are you happy, Christine?" Meg got straight to the point. "Is this life that you have chosen all you hoped it would be?"

"_Oh,__ yes_…"

And in those two words, Christine put the sum of her feelings, making any other assurances unnecessary.

Meg's expression was dreamy and a trifle envious. "Well, that's good then. You deserve to have every one of your dreams come true." She leaned with her hips against the base of a statue, clutching its rim and gracefully crossing her ankles. "So tell me, what do you enjoy most about being married?"

"Erik."

Christine grinned and Meg rolled her eyes with a little laugh.

"Could you be a bit more specific?"

"No."

At her secretive smile and warm blush, Meg shook her head, also smiling.

"Alright then, tell me this: what do you miss that you can no longer have?"

Christine thought about that, drawing her brows together in concentration.

"Anything…?" Meg prodded after numerous seconds elapsed. "Come now, there must be _some_thing …"

"I still have you as my friend so have no reason to miss that."

Meg waved that aside. "Of course …. Christine?"

"I suppose then … the sunrise." She gave a soft little nod and shrugged with a resigned smile. "I miss looking out the window above my old bed and seeing the sun begin to fill the sky with color."

Meg's brow furrowed in sympathy. "Christine … do you think you'll really be able to cope with living beneath the earth for so long, perhaps for _years,_ never again to see the sun rise?"

Christine laughed, surprising Meg.

"What's so funny about that?"

"If someone gave you a bag of gold would you fret over a missing franc note? Or if someone gave you a diamond ring, would you care that you misplaced your brass pin?"

"I suppose it would depend on the sentiment of the piece, but alright, yes. I see your point."

"Besides, there weren't that many dawns I was able to see it - morning preparations in our dormitory are always such a rush, as well you know …." Christine clutched the precious rings at her bosom and Meg suddenly noticed with a little gasp.

"You're not wearing them!"

"Erik didn't think it would be wise." She fished the chain out of her chemise to run her finger wistfully over the twin golden roses and the brilliant center stone then over its counterpart of engraved roses forming an entire circle around the band. In the strong sunlight, the gold gleamed and the diamond flashed, blinding, sending little rays of white sparkles over her hands.

"They really are beautiful. Your husband has good taste."

Christine absently nodded. Her smile faded as she continued to admire her wedding rings.

"You asked me what I enjoy most and what I have missed. Now I will tell you what I despise…"

She walked to the edge of the roof and looked out over the bustling city. _She_ could see no sign of brewing trouble, everything appeared to go on as it always had before….

She clutched the stone balustrade at her hips, the rooftop lined with legendary gargoyles that promised safety from evil. How she wished _that_ were true. Could these carved figurines of stone really protect them from impending harm...? Perhaps they could. Beings composed of mist had come to warn Erik and help him…

Her friend moved to join her, and Christine glanced her way.

"I absolutely despise the fact that we must keep our marriage hidden, Meg, as if it's some dirty little secret. I hate that there are too many potential dangers and so many past difficulties, and I must remain silent for fear of making things worse. But honestly, will they _ever_ get better? It seems like some troublesome matter is always happening somewhere. If not in the opera house, then outside, in the city …"

She frowned and sadly shook her head. "When Erik and I met for nightly practices, I enjoyed keeping the secret; it felt enchanting and exciting and mysterious - as if we were the only two people in the universe, and hidden away with him it did feel like that. It still does. But now that I'm his wife - something I've only been dreaming about since I knew what it meant to wish for a husband, " her words came wry - "Meg, I hate continuing like this. The words are all bottled up inside my soul, begging for release as if they'll take wing and burst from me at any moment. You don't know how many times I wanted to announce the truth during rehearsal, to let everyone know exactly why I went missing for a week and whose arms I belong in … how much I still wish to do so…"

Meg put a comforting hand to her shoulder. "Then do it."

"What?" Christine swung her head to look at her and blinked in shock at such a suggestion.

"Yes, you heard me," Meg urged her with a smile. "Here. Right now. There's no one to notice. You won't have the audience you wished for, but at least you can let the words break free. And you might feel better for it. This high up, it would be impossible for anyone to hear - or at least hear clearly - even without the wind and the constant racket of the carriages and horses below."

Christine looked down at the crowded street, the people and animals moving past like many colored splotches and specks dotting the gray stones. Smiling with the pleasurable thought, she glanced at her girlhood conspirator, the delight of the deed bubbling up like effervescent champagne in her heart until it could no longer be contained and she felt it spill from her:

"I am married to the Phantom of the Opera!" she cried out. "And I love him!"

A quick glance down to the street from both girls assured all going on as before, the colored specks plodding and darting on their usual course without pause or notice of the giddy pair of young women high on the rooftop. Both friends looked at one another and laughed aloud in covert merriment.

"I love Erik!" Christine shouted again.

She raised her arms and face to the cloudless blue skies and slowly twirled in a semi circle.

"He is MY HUSBAND! My PHANTOM … my ANGEL … my LOVER!"

Smiling brightly, she threw her arms out to the sides and let her voice and spirit soar.

"I AM THE WIFE OF ERIK - THE MAN ONCE KNOWN AS THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA!"

.

**xXx**

.

The not so erstwhile Opera Ghost slipped into Antoinette's office, shutting the door behind him and turning the key in the lock so they would not be disturbed.

"Maestro. It is nice to see you walk among us again. I trust things are well."

He gave a curt nod, not missing her welcoming smile and finding it odd that she seemed pleased to see him, more so that she would want him back.

"There are matters that need addressed with the current opera," he said.

"Oh?"

"Yes. I have decided that changes should be made in the second act." He paced a few steps. "Don Juan is too possessive and controlling. He should woo Aminta from a distance, not barrel over her like a freight train. I wish to write out that embrace as well, it doesn't work for the scene…"

Coming to the wall, he whirled around, his cloak snapping around his legs and moved in the other direction.

"I see … yet Don Juan's entire persona is that of an accomplished lover -"

"Yes, yes, I know - I wrote him for God's sake. But his approach with Aminta should be different than he has used on other women. Less sure of himself. More congenial and … respectful."

She gave a little choking sound and Erik turned from his frenetic pacing to look at her in suspicion.

"Pardon." She took a hasty sip of wine, patting her neck. "Something in my throat."

"I think such changes would add to his character."

"Oh, yes, of course. His character."

"The audience would be more sympathetic to his plight."

"Ah, sympathetic." She nodded in cordial agreement.

"And thus the scene would become more authentic to the plot."

"More authentic -"

"Do you intend to mimic me like a bloody parrot or have you anything useful to add?"

Her mouth twitched at the corners as she set down her glass. "Very well. Let us reevaluate - he is to be more congenial and respectful, less controlling … Perhaps, instead of that embrace, they could shake hands? And the kiss could be written out with a farewell wave, though the poignant one in the final act might be difficult to substitute. Perhaps a swift buss to the forehead…"

He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her. "You find this amusing?"

"Oh, Erik," she laughed helplessly. "This is _the_ _theater_. They are actors. A kiss means nothing."

"_**It**__** means **__**something **__**to**__** me!**_" he roared. "That's _**my**__** wife**_ out there being mauled by that reprobate Italian piece of scum, night after night - and I'll not have any more of it." He whirled about and sank to the chair facing hers, dropping his head into his hands.

She shook her head sympathetically. "You must have known this would happen, all these years you have planned for Christine to sing the lead. Surely, you must have realized…"

"I did not reach the full epiphany of that truth until rehearsal this morning. Yes, I have seen it before, on opening night, and despised every moment, somehow - God only knows - blocking it from conscious thought at the time. But now - now things are different…"

He bolted up out of the chair again, a minefield of restless energy. He had seen his future ghost strangle Piangi in that shadowed realm and wondered why he should do such a thing when he could have easily rendered the man unconscious to succeed in his plan to replace him; now he could better understand his reasoning, insane though it may be.

"But what can you do?" she asked. "Except learn to cope with this bit of unpleasantness. Surely you must know that to Christine it's all pretense."

"Yes, I know that." Even had he not seen her wipe her mouth with disgust after she left Piangi, he knew she had no interest in the man, despite the sudden elevation of her horrendously wonderful acting skills. "It's that Italian octopus I don't trust."

She sighed. "Shall we seek a replacement for him as you wished to do from the start? Though the managers might not be agreeable to lose two recognized leads…"

He thought about a new lead, one who could quite possibly end up as handsome and dashing as the blasted Vicomte, and whirled to face her. "NO! Keep the ingrate scum."

Taken aback, she shook her head. "Then what do you intend to do?"

What he wished to do was decree that _no __other __man_ on stage or off of it touch his Angel, but he refrained from saying so, not wanting to sound like an obsessive, jealous husband, never mind if he was exactly that. He knew he had her love; she had proven it beyond a shadow of a doubt. And in that respect, she had his trust. She would be faithful to him. But it galled him that no other man knew that she was _his!_

"Tell me that you don't wish to replace Christine?" she asked quietly.

"No," he said after a pensive moment, slightly shaking his head in resignation and moving back to her desk. "I will not steal from her this dream. She has coveted it for so long, since she was a child."

"And you?" Antoinette sounded surprised. "I thought you wanted stardom for her as well."

"All I have ever wanted is her complete happiness. To hear her voice was once my only source of pleasure. To hear her sing the operas I write, yes," he admitted with a weary sigh, "I wish for that too."

"Erik, you cannot have her sing the lead in a romantic opera and write out the romance."

"I am well aware of that," he snapped. "The audience would not be pleased if we were to introduce such a standard. And above all else, we must please the theater-goers or there would be no opera, is that not so?"

She gave a brief nod of acquiescence to his wry, rhetorical question, and again he dropped to the chair in defeat. "It seems I have little choice but to let matters stand as they are," he said miserably.

Antoinette nodded in relief. "I am pleased to hear you have reached that decision. It is for the best. For a moment I was worried that we might experience the return of the Opera Ghost."

"If Piangi steps out of line, do not discount the idea. I will be watching him very closely."

"I have no doubt of that."

He ignored her dry remark, thinking a brief note of instruction to the vainglorious Italian might be in order after all, then moved on to the next order of business.

"Enough of the concerns of the opera, for now. On other matters, if you should wish to seek my counsel or otherwise speak to me when I am in residence in my lair - in the case of a crisis only- bang the pipes in the boiler room three times, the ones that run parallel to the eastern wall. If I am in the vicinity I will hear and will then meet you in the dressing room."

"And if you are not in the vicinity?"

"Under no circumstances are you to come unannounced again!"

She frowned at his emphatic order. "Perhaps you should consider fashioning a signal like a bell cord, to announce a visitor's presence."

The alarms he used were rigged only to inform him of any foolish trespasser who found his way into a trap. Only three times in all the years he had been here had he heard their raucous clatter, and since no one had gone missing from the theater he assumed the lucky devils had clawed their way out or it had been an animal that wandered inside.

"You are the only one to visit my lair."

"But now you have a wife, and I'm certain at some point she'll wish for Meg to see her new home, and Meg will wish the same…"

He grimaced at the thought of opening his hidden caverns to outsiders but knowing Christine as he did and recalling her recent request, she was right.

"Christine wants me to take her for a drive into the city next week," he said dismally.

"Really?" Antoinette sat back in her chair in surprise. "Why?"

"She has her reasons," he said with an offhand wave. He had never told her of his experience on the night of the ghosts. Even should he ever decide to do so, now did not seem the appropriate time.

She looked at him curiously but nodded. "I think an outing would be lovely for both of you."

"Are you _insane_?" He had hoped to gain her assistance in discouraging Christine from such a reckless venture and shot out of his chair again.

"Oh, do sit down, Erik. You're so much easier to talk with when I don't have to follow you with my eyes from wall to wall like a ceaseless boomerang!"

He stopped pacing and blinked at her, stunned and at a total loss for her odd behavior. Since she had seen him unmasked days ago, and closer than ever before, he had thought she would put up a barricade of defensive distance and want little to do with him. Certainly not be so affable and at ease in his presence. Even as children, they had never talked so sociably.

The change confused him and that unnerved him. "What madness has gotten into you?"

"I could ask you the same," she quipped. "Honestly, Erik, a morning or evening ride into the city is not life-threatening. Do you wish for Christine to come to regard her home as a prison, buried beneath the earth, and never think herself allowed to partake of fresh air?"

He grimaced, reminded of fearful words from future ghosts of chains and control - and wondered what the hell this woman had against the cool air below. His caverns were not close or stale…

"And what of the bloody revolution that you were so damned eager to trespass into my lair to tell me about?"

"As far as I know, there's been no hint of an uprising, if one will even come to pass. You should take this opportunity while there is a calm. Enjoy an outing with your wife. Of course, as you are her Guardian Angel and have been quite adept with inciting fear in the hearts of all men as the frightful Opera Ghost, I have no doubt that you will rise to the occasion should any trouble befall you…"

At her blithe words that so clearly mocked him, but … in a gentle way? - he wasn't sure how to respond. This light banter was new territory for them, and he felt strangely out of his element, a feeling he disliked because it made him vulnerable. Like a child testing unknown waters, uncertain if they would keep him afloat or if a strong current would suddenly pull him under.

Her brow suddenly furrowed, her cheerful expression fading. "Oh, dear. I just remembered. There is something I must tell you. I had forgotten, I heard it in passing shortly after I visited you in your dungeon, but you should know - though of course I do not believe you to be guilty since I know you were with Christine." She took a calming breath. "It's about Lord Dubois - the Comte de Chagny's friend who went missing from the opera on the opening night of the Don Juan…"

He gave her a curt nod of impatience to continue, having recognized the name before she initially mentioned it days ago.

"He was found murdered. Washed up on the banks of the Seine, with a rope wrapped around his neck."

**xXx**


	41. Angel or Madman?

**A/N: Thank you so much for all reviews and continued interest! :) Marisolmarie- this is definitely slated to be a long story. -Vampy25- I gave him a wig because ALW did, and this is mostly based on the movie, though he also had a wig in the show. :) Bearer of Christ **** - happy belated birthday! :) - ****To all: Keep in mind as you read this, Il Muto, (JB's death) etc, never happened…After the night the Phantom took Christine through the mirror, everything changed…(oh, and this chapter needs the rating...)  
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* * *

**Angel or Madman?**

**Chapter XLI**

.

"A rope?" Christine stared at her friend in horrified shock then looked back to the busy street below. "How awful…"

"A lasso to be exact, made of catgut. Like in Buquet's little song."

Christine snapped her attention to Meg. After her delight to proclaim from the rooftop her love and commitment for Erik that had so long been bottled up inside her, the conversation had drifted to mundane matters of the theater during Christine's leave of absence, followed by this startling new development.

"Tell me that you're not suggesting Erik had anything to do with Lord Dubois's murder," she said her voice rising with both incredulity and irritation. "I simply refuse to believe that."

"The Vicomte believes it."

"Raoul?" Christine shook her head. "Why should he come to such an absurd conclusion? What motive could Erik _possibly_ have for committing this murder? I doubt he's even heard of the man!"

"I don't know, Christine." Meg shrugged, just as frustrated. "I also doubt that your new bridegroom took it into his mind to haunt the streets of Paris while you were absent from him those few hours after your wedding, but…" She shook her head. "We don't really know where he was, do we? Or what might have happened."

Christine pushed away from the balustrade, her mouth a grim line. "Erik would never do anything as horrendous as kill anyone in cold blood. He's not like that, and I don't care about Monsieur Buquet's wretched little song. What does he know, anyway? He's never even met him!"

As a child, her Angel _had_ killed once, to free himself from his gypsy tormentor - but she had learned enough about the man she adored to know he would never commit cold-blooded murder. He had been horrified to see Buquet's future death at his hands and had done everything he could to prevent the act and the events that would then follow, even to the point of pushing her away, fearful of Christine's outcome if he followed through with any part of his plan. He had been certain she would then think him a monster and run from him...

No, he would do nothing to risk their happiness. It was foolish to think otherwise.

"Raoul is wrong," Christine stated simply.

"Perhaps…but he seemed certain. When he returned to the table after speaking to the detective he hired to find Lord Dubois, he was sullen and determined. He wouldn't tell me more than what little I told you, though he did ask a lot of questions."

"What sort of questions?"

"He asked if Buquet knows the Phantom. I suppose it's because of that horrid little ditty he often sings to try to scare us, about the Phantom catching us with his magical lasso…"

Christine shook her head briskly, averse to hearing more of such wretched lies. "It's all a dreadful coincidence, nothing else. I tell you, Meg, Erik would never so callously take the life of _any_ man unless it was in self defense. And in that instance, he would be justified." She winced, recalling the cruel marks of the whip that had slashed his back and how mankind had so callously treated him with no rationale, save for the difference of his face…

"Alright, we needn't speak of this anymore." Meg's reply came soft. "I wasn't going to tell you, knowing you might react this way. But I thought you should hear the news from me first, so you could be prepared if the Vicomte should question you. I thought the shock of hearing such accusations wouldn't be so harsh then."

"Yes, thank you. I don't blame you, Meg. You've always watched out for me."

That Raoul should always accuse Erik of some vile crime set her teeth on edge. She strongly doubted that the Vicomte had any inkling that the Phantom he so callously disregarded as nothing more than trouble was his very own brother. Christine had learned more about Erik in one week than she had known in ten years. Yet when that knowledge was held up against the mystery of all that composed her beloved, she still knew so little, and she wondered again what kind of family would exile their own flesh and blood. Erik had been brief when he spoke of his visit with the ghost of the past in that realm, but she had seen the distressed pain in his eyes. And Raoul's own mother had sold him into slavery to the gypsies. Now her son seemed determined to put Erik in a caged cell once again.

"I didn't mean to upset you so." Meg moved toward her, taking her hand.

Christine managed to bring her furious resentment under control. "Never mind. It's not your fault for what Raoul - or anyone else thinks or does. And I do appreciate the warning."

Meg gave a little nod and silence resurfaced as each of them was immersed in their own thoughts for a time.

"I still find it incredible that he took you to dinner."

Meg looked worried. "You're not upset about that, too?"

"Yes, I am. But not for the reason you might suppose." Christine turned fully toward her and took hold of her other hand, squeezing both of them. "More than anything I wish for you to find someone who will make you happy and love you as much as Erik loves me. And that, in turn, you will love that man as much as I love Erik."

"But you don't think the Vicomte is that man?" Meg ended on a slight tone of affront.

"Actually, I don't know what to think. Of course, I would hope it was so, for your sake - if that is what you truly want. Just please tread carefully, Meg. Remember, it was only a few weeks ago that he pledged his devotion to me."

Meg's gaze fell to the ground. "I have not forgotten."

"I would be pleased to see him move on, but I don't wish to see you hurt if he's not yet…ready. He has changed so much from the boy I once knew, which is understandable, since all of us are no longer the children we were. But I cannot understand how he thinks or why he does some of the things he does." She shook her head a little in perplexity. "Whatever you decide, please don't let him poison your mind against Erik. It has always been my hope that you would see him for the great man he is and we could all get along. Perhaps in the not so distant future, you could even visit our home for luncheon or tea…"

Meg's brows arched high. "Five levels below the earth?" She spoke of Christine's home as if it were composed of a gloomy dungeon far beneath a haunted castle.

Christine giggled, her friend's clear horror breaking the tension.

"It's not as bad as it sounds. You would be amazed how lovely things are in the home he prepared for us. He is remarkable with decor, which comes as no surprise since the breadth of his talents are limitless with any form of art - but for all that, there is one thing he lacks." She sighed and shook her head.

Meg's eyes grew bigger, clearly hoping for a juicy secret. "What?"

Christine grinned. "He's a terrible housekeeper."

Meg's answering smile came faint then grew wide.

"What?" Christine asked, catching on to her amusement.

"I'm trying to picture the Opera Ghost in an apron."

Christine giggled at the idea, unable to imagine her enigmatic dark Phantom in anything so domestic, such as what Chef Pierre wore. With her mind on food, her stomach urged her with a low rumble.

"We should get something to eat before rehearsals resume, but do agree that you'll come for a visit in the not too distant future. If you ask nicely, he might even sing and play for you…"

Christine found it incredible that besides Madame, she was the only member of the opera house fortunate to have heard his talented voice and skills with both violin and organ. She hoped that at some point she might persuade him to take the stage with her and be her lead, as much as she hoped for the day he would agree to live above the earth with her in a real house, with a small rose garden…

Realizing her friend still had not answered, she gently prodded.

"Meg?"

"Yes, alright. After hearing you laud his musical abilities so often and knowing that he is your teacher and trained you so well, I admit, I am interested…" She had been looking below as she spoke, her manner now becoming abruptly intent. She leaned against the stone balustrade. "Do you see that boy?"

Christine glanced where Meg pointed to a brown and white splotch.

"How can you tell from all the way up here that it's a boy?" Christine asked in amazement.

"I can't be sure … something about the way he walks maybe - hesitant. Not rushing about like everyone else. He reminds me of the boy from the café."

Christine turned to her. "The one you gave your meal to, the child who warned you about the detective?"

"Yes, I think so - Christine! Did you see that?" Meg leaned over a little further and Christine grabbed her arm, worried her friend might fall headfirst to the stones in her excitement to spy. "He crouched to the ground and seems to have crawled into the wall of the opera house! There's no door there - this is the side of the building with the chapel."

Meg's little waif - if that's who it was - had indeed seemed to vanish.

"The grating," Christine murmured, curious. "He must have gone through that."

"You're right, that has to be where he went." Meg turned to her, her eyes alight with excitement. "There's no other way inside. You go eat lunch if you like, but I simply must find out what's going on."

Christine was very hungry. She'd only had an apple early that morning and a small portion of cheese, soon again becoming lost in her lover to care about continuing with something as trivial as a more substantial course of food - but this odd little mystery proved too compelling.

"The meal can wait. I'll come with you."

.

**xXx**

.

Erik left Antionette's office, their conversation haunting him. He recalled where he had heard the name of the hapless victim, garroted with a Punjab lasso - the Opera Ghost's own unique calling card:

_" … the chamber will suit… Chagny? Laurent? Dubois, yes, definitely. During the new opera … no one will refuse … "_

But clearly the man had done just that. The two questions predominant in Erik's mind - what had the ill-fated noble declined and why had the executioner chosen Erik to be suspect? The Punjab was a rare if nonexistent method to kill in Paris - his weapon of choice and one that he had learned to use in Persia and brought back with him to France.

He had little patience for mysteries he did not instigate and littler tolerance for crimes accredited to him that he did not carry out. Would the fool managers presume the Opera Ghost had returned and taken his brand of justice to the city streets? With the current state of affairs, perhaps he should…

Moving through the opera house, he kept well within the comfort of shadows, intent on the conversations going on below him as many performers and crew took a respite from work for their luncheon. Not everyone adjourned to the dining areas set off for the cast and chorus, some preferring to stand around the stage in favored cliques and pass a bottle of spirits among them. Other than matters of the opera, there was no more than the usual gossip from the ballet rats, eager for news of the latest scandal, and the lewd discourse among the crew, boasting about which maid they had bedded or what wench they soon planned to take.

Not finding anything of interest to equip him with what information he needed, Erik slipped through the door of the wall into one of his many hidden passageways that ended at the same corridor he had once carried Christine through to escape discovery.

He opened the rock panel and froze in shock as he came face to face with a disheveled, dirty child who looked no more than ten.

The boy's eyes widened as he stared up at the Phantom, the hunk of bread he'd likely stolen falling from his grasp.

"I think you're right, Meg, but we should hurry before someone comes looking for us," Christine's excited words softly sailed down to Erik and he snapped his gaze beyond the boy, realizing both women were moving down the winding stairs toward the chapel.

The burning desire to see Christine intensified. His eyes flicked down to the small intruder who still gawked up at him.

"Surely you were seeing things, Meg, dear girl. Why would a beggar slip in the chapel by way of grate? Unless he's a pious beggar, and not a beggar seeking pie…"

Erik grimaced at the feeble joke and the knowledge that the buffoon, Charles, accompanied them. The trio of footsteps grew louder and he inhaled an impatient, frustrated breath through clenched teeth, quenching the abrupt curse that rose to his lips.

A moment alone with his bride clearly a lost aspiration, he considered this new problem at hand.

The boy blinked owlishly, his mouth a gaping round hole. "I know who you are," he whispered, "You're the Phantom of the Opera!"

Only seconds had elapsed from the moment Erik opened the wall of rock, the trio almost to the bottom of the stairwell, and he now acted quickly. Grabbing the boy, he slipped one hand firmly over his mouth, pulling him inside the passage against him and silently closed the secret door.

.

**xXx**

.

The faint sound of a scuffle had Christine turn her head sharply to the left once she set her foot on the landing.

"Christine?" Meg studied her curiously.

Charles had already gone into the chapel, eager for the hunt and intent on studying the grate. Christine wished that he hadn't joined in, but upon seeing him approach once they left the rooftop, Meg had been quick to tell him her findings.

"Well, Meg, you were right," he called out. "It appears the grate _is_ open a few inches. What do you know about that…? Someone definitely came through here."

"Please keep him occupied for as long as you can," Christine whispered to her friend. "I'll join you shortly."

Meg looked down the empty dead-end corridor in the direction Christine had heard the noise and nodded as if she understood.

"Wherever he came from, he's not here now. We ought to retrace our steps and look elsewhere. Likely he's upstairs."

"You could be right, Charles," Meg said quickly, hurrying inside, "but first I think we should look outside the grate. Since you found it open, perhaps he came for what he wanted - a silver candlestick or maybe one of those memorial plaques - and made a quick getaway by way of the alley between here and the street. You might still be able to catch him…"

Christine heard the sound of the grate followed by the heavy clods of Charles's shoes on stone as he climbed out the other end.

_Bless you, Meg._

Christine didn't waste another second and ran silently down the corridor to the end of the rock wall. In the dim light from a distant torch, she saw a crust of bread lying on the ground.

She couldn't very well knock on stone, much less expect to be heard, so she bent close to where she remembered the opening was.

"Erik, my love, if you're in there, please let me in."

Perhaps it was wishful thinking, perhaps it was more, but she was sure she heard a click on the other side. Immediately, it was followed by Charles's voice, coming from the chapel.

"I tell you, he's not out there, Meg. He's in here. And where the hell did Christine run off to?"

_Drat it all!_

"No - don't come out, Erik! They're back."

Her fervent hope for one small, stolen moment with her bridegroom doused, Christine whipped around and hurried back to join the two amateur detectives. She thought she knew exactly where the boy was; the only question in her mind - why would Erik take him?

.

**xXx**

.

Erik, rested his forearm against the stone, bowing his head in disappointment. He had heard Christine's voice faintly from the other side, and his heart leapt at the thought of just one stolen moment to be near her, one warm touch of his hand against her cheek, before he, too, had heard Charles' raucous bellow from afar inquiring after her whereabouts.

Foolish, it might be, when tallied against the endless days of years he had been without her physical presence. Lovesick, he was. But he missed his bride.

The light of one small flame cast dim yellow light in the circle where he stood. It flickered from the candle he'd magically lit on the wall after hearing her voice, the candelabras a new addition for his beloved, put there after his dark trek through this hidden corridor with Christine weeks before...

Erik let out a dismayed breath, then stared down at the boy, wondering what the hell to do with him.

He had killed a multitude of men without batting an eye, terrified a number of women to his grim and disgusted amusement - but never had he laid a hand of violence on a child, never laid a hand on a child in any capacity. Despite the greater beast he had become in Persia, that was one line of dissent he drew as an assassin there. And, due in part to this twisted code of ethics, he had nearly experienced his own demise.

Children were innocents, their minds gullible, taught to hate and fear. Children had mocked him, aping their elders, but one small girl had rescued him and taken him from his cage, bringing him to live here. Later, another small girl saved him from utter madness and loneliness upon his return from Persia. In first watching over Christine and, at times, her little friend Meg when the two were together, he came to understand that little ones did not deserve his vengeance and hatred. His adoration of his Angel had strengthened over the years fortifying that idea … his past remorse over the little slave girl's death upon his refusal to do the Khanum's bidding also cemented that belief.

In that respect, the boy was safe. Not that Erik would kill again. He couldn't raise a hand in bloodshed, not if he wanted to keep Christine safe from a future that terrified him. He could never do anything that would cause her to run in fear from him and into the arms of another man - not now when she truly belonged to him in every way that mattered.

Thus, Erik considered his little, filthy captive.

The boy looked and smelled as if he had not had a good washing in months. His tattered clothes hung off small bones covered by a thin layer of skin. Clearly he was a victim of the recent siege, thankfully now at an end.

"Who are you and how have you heard of me?" Erik asked quietly with the promise of danger edging his tone that had persuaded many to speak.

The boy blinked at the sound of his smooth voice. "I-I am Marcel. You are a legend where I live, monsieur."

Erik narrowed his eyes. "And where is that?"

"Near Cairo Street and the Rue Reaumur."

Erik recognized the area, having been there one terrible night he would choose to forget. Not that he ever could…

So, he was a legend in the slums. The O.G. was a champion of tales among beggars. Outcasts themselves, it seemed fitting.

He peered hard at the boy, trying to recall if the scamp had been one of that number.

"Do you know a lame child by the name of Tina?"

The boy's eyes widened and he gave a nervous nod.

Erik's voice lowered in threat. "And are you one of those fiends who has been tormenting her?"

"Oh no, monsieur. But I know who you speak of. My brother is their leader. He won't let me be in the gang. He says I'm too young. But I'm nearly ten and faster and smarter than any of them."

Erik snorted at that. "How is it that my name is known so far across Paris?"

"My brother, Alexander, made a delivery to the opera house. He was here the day you made the tapestry fall on the ugly diva's head." Marcel smiled. "I wish I had seen that. I don't like her. She's not nice and sings bad."

The Phantom regarded the child with an inkling of partiality. Perhaps the boy had possibilities.

"Why have you come here, so far from your home? Are you a thief?"

"Oui, monsieur," he said proudly, sticking out his thin chest as if the title were a badge of honor.

Erik curbed the strange impulse to laugh. "You will do better to find what you need at the café."

"The owner ran me off. But I like to come here. I often do. The music is so pretty."

Erik would argue the point on most days.

"I know almost every inch of this opera house … well…" The boy's eyes went to the wall of dark rock. "Except I didn't know about this…"

At his clear curiosity, Erik's demeanor grew stern. "You are never to tell anyone about these hidden passages. If you are so foolish to do so much as whisper a word of what was said between us, I shall come to your neighborhood and haunt you like the ghost I am until you whither away from terror and your heart ceases to beat. You will rue the day that you crossed me."

The boy's eyes grew huge. "Are you a true ghost, monsieur?"

Erik withheld a snort of disdain. How old was this gullible child? Nine? But then, he had done little to convince a gentle girl not much younger that he was an Angel.

"You have said yourself that I am The Phantom. The Opera Ghost who rules this theater, unseen, from the shadows and darkness…"

The boy nodded solemnly.

"There you have your answer."

"I can keep a secret, Monsieur Phantom."

Erik gave a curt nod. "I expect nothing less."

"And I am very small and can get into tight corners. I'm a good spy too. Afraid of no one."

"Why tell me this?"

"I will work for you - in exchange for … a meal each day?"

The boy did have courage to talk to The legendary Phantom in such a daring manner. Most men cowered in his presence. But Erik would not put his trust in a thief, no matter how small.

"I need no help in my opera house. I work alone."

The boy's face was crestfallen, and Erik considered him pensively.

"There is one thing you can do..."

The boy's eyes lit up again.

"You say that you are brave. Prove it. If ever you see anyone bully the seamstress's daughter, you are to help her. My…," Blast it all, he _would_ say it once, "…wife has a fondness for the child."

Surprise swept over the boy's thin features. "The pretty lady with the curly brown hair who dances and sings and has a voice of an angel?"

Erik grimly crossed his arms over his chest. "You know about that too?"

"Oui, monsieur. Least that's what everyone says. Everyone knows the Opera Ghost is the teacher of Mademoiselle Daae and she will be a star. She's nice. She smiled at me outside the opera stables last year and gave me an apple."

He raised his brow, not in the least surprised by his Angel's generosity. "Let that be all they know of it. Do not repeat anything I have said." He glared at the boy. "Guard my secret well. I warn you, if you speak, I will know. I can be anywhere at any time, and I will hear you."

"I will tell no one. But … monsieur …" He looked at him curiously. "Do ghosts have wives?"

Perhaps not so gullible after all. "I do. That is all you need to know."

Erik put his ear to the rock. All was silent.

"You must go out the way you came. Go quickly. Let no one see you."

"Monsieur Phantom…?" the boy asked as Erik clicked the lever open, once he was assured the chapel again stood empty. The child stooped to pick up his fallen bread and turned slightly to look at him. "…Why do you wear a mask and hide in the walls?"

Erik froze, the familiar, desperate rage boiling up unbidden, the fear that the boy would now ask to see beneath the black shield, to see the grotesque mass of flesh that his jeering tormentors had made even worse - as a terrified boy in a beast's cage, as a despised young man in a hell disguised as heaven...

He reined in his churning feelings and looked down into innocent blue eyes.

"Not all bullies grow up. Some will always remain monsters."

With that quiet explanation, Erik closed the door between them.

.

**xXx**

.

The performance that evening went better than Christine could have anticipated. She had been anxious that she might forget small details in the week of her absence, but once beneath the spotlight, she glided through the arias as if she had never left the stage. And thankfully, she did not have to make good on her threat to Piangi, who kept his tongue where it belonged.

During a standing ovation, which Meg gleefully informed her between curtain calls was not given to her understudy, Christine gracefully made her bows, her eyes often turning up to Box Five.

With her arms full of roses, she hurried backstage with Meg beside her, in the hope that she could reach her dressing room before the usual groups of admirers and reporters waylaid her. She loved to sing but disliked the furor of exposure that was part of a diva's lot and had no desire for anything tonight but to be in the arms of her husband.

With the dressing room in sight, Christine hastened her steps.

A man suddenly stepped from an alcove and into her path, blocking her progress.

Christine halted in the narrow corridor in shock, feeling Meg's fingers protectively go around her upper arm.

"Mademoiselle Daae." He gave a deep bow and presented her with a pink rose. "May I say, your performance tonight was a delight to witness."

"Merci." She took the flower. Something about the man unnerved her. He was different than other admirers. His smile seemed forced, the look in his dark, flashing eyes in opposition to his glib words. Standing at her height and barrel-chested, looking decidedly out of place in his formal attire, he looked as if he would be more comfortable in a workman's uniform. He wore a close-cropped beard and seemed oddly familiar…

"You were at my debut," she said, remembering. "I saw you standing here, in this spot, outside my dressing room."

"You have a sharp memory. Unfortunately I was not able to make your acquaintance then, as you were…indisposed."

Something about his tone, flippant but harsh, suggested he blamed her for the loss of the meeting.

Hearing the hum of thespians grow louder, Christine made a hasty farewell.

"Forgive me, monsieur, but I must go."

A steely glint entered his eyes before his manner again became relaxed and he gave another bow. "Of course. We will see one another again, mademoiselle."

Meg stared at the man with cold suspicion and tugged on Christine's arm.

"Come, Christine. We must hurry."

The two girls moved past him, and Christine briefly glanced over her shoulder. He did not depart but had turned to watch them, standing immobile and staring after her as if she was his to own.

"Don't worry about him," Meg whispered as she opened the dressing room and both girls slipped inside. "You get all kinds in this business. I'll talk to Maman. Perhaps she can do something to prevent his return backstage."

Christine nodded distantly and laid the roses on a nearby table. "Meg, if you don't mind…" Her glance skittered to the full length mirror then back to her friend.

Awareness glimmered in Meg's bright eyes and her lips quirked at the corners in a teasing grin.

"Perhaps I should stay, to help fend off any more admirers."

"That's what keys in locks are for," Christine answered dryly.

Meg pouted. "Oh. Very well then. If that's the way you feel, I'll go. I know when I'm no longer wanted…"

Christine instantly felt sorry. "Meg, please don't be upset. I didn't mean to…"

Meg giggled, unable to hold in her enjoyment, making a farce of her affronted pretense. Christine's concern evaporated and she rolled her eyes at her friend's little absurdity then also laughed, her unease at meeting the unwelcome admirer dissipating like mist.

"Don't worry. I understand your desire to be _alone_," Meg said, half serious and half teasing. "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon at rehearsal."

"If anyone should inquire after my whereabouts…"

"I'll tell them you're not to be disturbed."

"Thank you, Meg. You're a dear friend."

Once Christine closed the door behind Meg and turned the key, leaving it in the lock to avoid interruptions, she looked expectantly toward the empty room. From her dressing table, light still flickered from two candelabrum, each with five branches of candles that had burned halfway and were reflected against the three oval mirrors. The effect cast the room in graduated circles of darkness, save for the pleasant dim glow near the mirror, suggesting intimacy.

"Erik?" she called softly, staring at her image in the glass. "Are you there?"

Her reflection didn't fall away, the mirror didn't slide open on its track, and she stared at the glass in impatience, willing it to obey her wishes, at last resigning herself that she would need to wait. She had felt his presence with her on stage, knowing he watched from Box Five, and that box wasn't so far away that it should take him more than a few more minutes to reach her. But it seemed as if days had elapsed and not hours since she had last seen her love.

Deciding to spend the endless, empty minutes changing out of her costume for the finale, Christine darted behind the dressing screen, the paper thin panel reflecting the glow of distant candlelight, but it was enough to see what she was doing. Quickly, she worked to remove the red sash from around her waist, dropping it to the padded stool, followed by the hooked fastenings of the form-fitting black corset. She had just plucked the rose from her wild tangle of curls, when she straightened in sudden awareness and her heart quickened.

She heard no sound, his entrance silent as was his custom, but she knew he was there.

Her skin tingling in excitement, Christine stepped out from beyond the dressing screen.

He stood in front of the mirror, towering as dark and debonair as ever, with that breathless undercurrent of cavalier savagery that was a dominant part of his nature. In the candlelight, his eyes reflected like gold from this distance, no green noticeable. They glowed with hidden fire as he silently took her in from disheveled head to bare toe where she stood at the opposite end of the room.

God, he was magnificent. This Phantom, her Angel…

And now, at last, her husband.

The reminder broke through the cloud of awe fogging her mind and she ran to him with a little cry of his name, Erik taking several hurried steps toward her and catching her in his arms. Their lips came violently together in eager welcome, his arms tight around her as he twirled her off her feet in a half circle and moved with her until Christine felt her back pressed near the frame against the mirror, still open a third of the way.

"You were exquisite," he breathed.

She smiled with pleasure to be near him again, to have his approval, and slipped her fingers to his nape, beneath the stiff collars of shirt, coat, and cloak.

"You _are_ exquisite…" he corrected, his voice coming hoarse, and swiftly he bent to possess her lips again.

Memory of the last time they were in this position rapidly fueled the ignited embers of their desire and once they pulled apart so as to breathe, they saw the dual ache of want in each other's eyes.

Clothes were inconsequential burdens to be cast aside in whatever way possible. The urgency roared through both of them for heated flesh, to be as close as they could become - now, in this moment - a hunger that demanded immediate satisfaction and prohibited the full removal of what shielded their nakedness.

His hand delved beneath her skirt. Christine barely noticed the rip of her silk costume that stretched between her legs and destroyed that barrier. She was just as determined to tear into his waistcoat, shirt, and trousers, her hands aching for the feel of his skin, both smooth and scarred.

Erik let out a guttural groan against her mouth, his fingers pressing into her folds, already so wet for him. Several strokes and he could stand no more.

"I must have you," he rasped.

Grabbing her legs he wrapped her thighs around his hips and plunged… gasping at the pleasure of heated, wet sensation…delighting in her ecstatic moan as he filled her body. He held perfectly still, savoring the feel of being squeezed so tightly inside his beloved, to know the utter closeness of at last being one with her, but hunger soon drove him to move. Keeping a hand clasped beneath her thigh, he pulled her chemise down with the other and bared her breasts, his fingers revisiting the softness of one pale globe and its divergent crest, now pebble hard.

Fire and ice washed through Christine, the stark chill of the mirror at her back in direct contrast to the heat flaming throughout her blood and pooling heavily inside her belly. Each frenzied drive of his flesh into her core brought the quiet slap of moist skin, the hunger and pleasure of oneness - her soft breasts meeting his hard torso she had bared in her desperation to reach him through endless layers clothing, as together they rose to a summit of sweet agony. With her arms wrapped around him inside his shirt, her damp fingers warm against the raised scars of his back, she tightened her legs around his slim hips, trying to draw her lover in even further with each greedy, deep plunge, wishing to absorb him into her very self so that she never had to let him go.

His lips crushed hers, his hungry tongue capturing her willing one. The edge of molded black leather pressed the delicate skin above her lip, and she groaned in her need and impatience, moving one hand to snap away his mask. Before she could make contact, Erik grabbed her wrist and pressed it firmly above her head on the mirror, never taking his mouth from hers.

Christine went weak inside and whimpered at the feel of helplessness he engendered that strangely sharpened her desire to another level. Her entire body trembled as she ascended with him to the distant peak of bliss and tumbled over in a blast of shivering warmth. Within seconds, he followed, finding his own fiery descent deep inside her.

Their breaths harsh and labored, they remained motionless and desperately clung as their heaving bodies rode the final wave of sensation. He dropped his forehead to hers, pressing it there. It was a moment before he gained enough breath to speak.

"I will sound like a lovesick fool," he admitted, his voice a silken rumble that moved all through her, "but the entirety of the day my heart has been heavy with missing you … with wanting you…"

"Every corner I turned, I hoped you would be there," she breathed in return and brushed her lips over his with a quiet smile.

He let her down carefully, her back sliding against the mirror, slick with dampness, and eased away from her. They readjusted their clothing and gently she pulled off his mask.

Erik shook his head as if to question but before he could ask why, Christine laid a finger against his lips.

"For this," she explained, then bringing his head down to hers she kissed him again, long and deep and slow, satisfied at the soft swell of his malformed flesh teasing against her skin with no rigid mask to dig into her flesh any longer.

She cradled his jaw with her left hand and they looked at one another. In the flickering long shadows cast by the candlelight, the crevices of ridged and mottled flesh appeared darker and even more twisted, but Christine saw no horror; only the cherished face of her dear husband.

To her chagrin, a protest chose that moment to rumble from her stomach. Her face flushed with embarrassed warmth.

Erik chuckled in tender amusement. "I really must learn to feed you before we engage in these pleasurable pursuits."

She grinned self-consciously. "I am far from complaining. Though the seamstress might when she takes a look at this costume."

He drew away to glance at her gold, voile skirt and the opaque silk sewn inside to cover her, now barely seen and hanging loose from being split at the seam. "Yes, I see it is damaged..." His sham of remorse did not match the satisfied sparkle of mischief in his eyes, the color of which had altered to a rich, glowing dark jade. "I shall have her make copies of each of your costumes, so as to bridge that side of caution."

"You speak as if you intend to keep her busy."

"Oh, I assure you of that, mon amour."

His silken reply came both amused and sincere and her heart sped a few beats faster at the prospect of future encounters such as they had just shared.

She fingered the slit minus its button on his waistcoat. "I shall need to learn to sew as well, unless you have a tailor." She tilted her head to the side. "Do you have a tailor?"

He smiled, bringing her fingertips to his lips and kissing them. "My requirements are well met. You needn't prick the tips of such delicate fingers with the vicious point of a needle."

She looked at him in dawning disbelief. "Tell me you don't make your own clothes too?"

He laughed outright at that. "No. Madame Giry takes my list of measurements and instructions to the opera tailors and blends them in with orders of outfits for the cast, acquiring what I need without anyone the wiser. Now," He took her other hand in his, retrieving his mask but not tying it back in place. "Are you ready to go home, ma chérie?"

_Home_. Christine felt a glow of warmth unfurl inside her heart at the sound of it - her home with Erik - and the idea of retreating to their own perfect hideaway.

"Yes, but first…" She fished the rings from her bodice. "You _did_ promise."

The gleam in his eyes softened. "A promise that I am as eager to fulfill as you are to accept."

Once the rings were in his hand, he slipped them over her outstretched finger and gave the skin above a gentle kiss.

"Miss Daae, are you in there?"

Erik had just pocketed the gold chain. They both glanced toward the sound of the disturbance.

Miss Daae…?" A strident knock on the dressing room door was soon followed by a rattle of the knob. "I know I heard someone in there," a muffled voice insisted.

Christine and her Phantom shared an unhurried look as he waited for what she would do. She slipped her hand in his.

"They may have my days, but my nights are yours alone."

She gave him a tender smile, which he returned, as he led her through the entrance into their private world.

The key magically fell from the lock on the inside of the dressing room door, which abruptly opened…

…once the mirror door closed quietly from behind.

.

**xXx**

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**A/N: Hope you guys liked the chapter. :) More fluff and fun and fright to come...  
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	42. Modesty Starts to Mellow With the Wine

**A/N: Allow me to indulge in a little fluff, fun, and naughtiness. ;-) More dramatic, intense, and dark, frightening scenes are promised, but I like to blend moments such as these into story too - (and they actually are helping to move plot forward)…**

* * *

**Modesty Starts to Mellow With the Wine**

**Chapter XLII**

.

The following day proved no easier to bear for their temporal parting, but Erik and Christine managed to delay their ardent reunion until after they returned home and he had served her the meal he earlier prepared. His own hunger having nothing to do with food, once she daintily blotted her lips and laid her napkin on her plate, he promptly ended their discussion of the day's mundane activities and kissed her soundly. Scooping her from the chair, he carried her to the bedchamber, amid her girlish giggles…which soon elevated to a chorus of blissful sighs.

The second night proved no different, save for the variance of Christine taking the initiative and moving to sit on Erik's lap after the meal, one leg straddling either side of him. They never made it to the bedchamber, engaging in their own idea of the perfect dessert.

Above ground, Christine played the good little diva, giving neither the managers nor Monsieur Reyer cause for complaint and concentrating on the production to the best of her ability. Always, in the back of her mind, her focus lingered on Erik. She wished that every corner she turned would find him there. An unrealistic fantasy. He would never allow himself to be seen by anyone in the theater. But the nebulous ache of missing him never departed, growing as the day progressed. Of course, she knew he often was there, hiding in shadows, and that gave her a measure of satisfaction, however weak when compared to having him so close that his warmth soothed her body and the tender strength of his arms around her turned her bones to liquid fire. Even one embrace of stolen seconds was preferable to nothing.

From the story Erik long ago told her, Persephone's travail lasted one full season each year. While Christine endured an endless stretch of hours every day. Had the Queen of the Underworld also felt such pitiless yearning to be returned to the depths where her lover Hades resided? Did the ache ever go away?

She was being ridiculous, perhaps - but one short week of solitude with her new husband seemed hardly enough to satisfy. Perhaps because of their long association and all the difficulties and heartache they endured to reach that point, as well as the obstacles that yet overshadowed. The nights in returning to him below were heaven, but elapsed all too quickly before once again, it was time to go above, not to hell of course. But some days at the opera felt like that.

On her last day of performances at the end of the following week, Madame surprised Christine, pulling her away from the rest of the cast during a break after a deplorable rehearsal.

Christine braced herself for the expected scolding.

"I find I will need to spend additional time to work with the new dancers if they are to improve for next weekend's performances. Your own performance needs little development, the laudable results due to the diligence of your great teacher, no doubt. I have no cause for reprimand where you are concerned."

Speechless by the approval when her former ballet instructor had given her little but criticism in the past, Christine stared.

Madame's lips quirked in what could almost be construed as a smile. "You may take the next two days off. I will not require you at rehearsal until Wednesday."

At the unexpected gift of two full days to spend with Erik, Christine could barely contain her excitement and gleefully clasped her hands in her skirts. "Oh, thank you, Madame!"

Her former teacher gave her a stern look. "I expect you to be in top performance upon your return."

"Of course. Erik insists on vocal lessons and practice each evening that I don't perform."

"As I would expect. The Maestro has a high expectation of excellence."

Christine vaguely nodded her agreement, her attention caught by the trio of new dancers who stretched at the barre. Their penalty of exercises came as erratically paced as their earlier dance.

"May I ask a question, Madame?"

"You may."

"What happened to Chantel, Amy, and Louisa?" Meg hadn't known the details and there were few in the corps de ballet who openly talked when Christine was in the vicinity, their hostility having increased now that she held the coveted title of reigning diva.

At first she didn't think Madame would answer.

"The twins left due to their family's sudden move from Paris. Chantel was found in the managers' office, rummaging through their bookcase. Monsieur Firmin dismissed her as a thief."

"Oh." Christine lifted her brows in surprise. She certainly wouldn't miss the vulgar tramp, though she was astonished to hear the details. The twins, however, would be missed. Always reserved and quiet, except with each other, they never caused Christine harm. Meg told her once that their grandfather was a baron stripped of his title, and they dealt with their own troubles of being fully accepted in a theater environment of those lowly born.

"I would ask that you not speak of this, even to Meg. I know you are not one to gossip like other girls in the chorus."

Conflicted feelings of advantage and discomfort made Christine feel both mature and uncertain. Again she felt that novel shift of balance, no longer a pupil under her teacher, but as if Madame truly regarded her as akin to an equal. Her marriage to Erik had altered much more than her innocence, as if with the recitation of her vows she passed an invisible threshold that awarded her greater trust and the expectation of a higher level of maturity. With Erik, the change felt desirable, comfortable and exciting. With Madame, it felt tenuous. Odd and uncertain.

"Why tell me this, if it's to be kept secret?" Christine felt a twinge of disloyalty to agree a second time to keep anything from Meg.

"I am not unaware of the trouble Chantel caused you, and I thought to relieve your mind. Yours and Erik's both. She will not return."

"Thank you, yes. I understand." Christine averted her gaze.

Madame heaved a sigh. "Meg has not learned prudent silence is always wise, especially in this theater. You have never had that problem, proving your reliance from the time you were seven and found your Angel or Music, keeping his secret and trust for all your young life."

Madame's voice grew soft with approval and Christine smiled a little, again nodding.

"I sense affairs of the opera are soon destined to change. Secrecy, as always, is vital, of which I trust you to be continually aware." Madame sighed again, this time in disgust. "There is one more issue I must discuss with you. The managers have not been pleased with your immediate disappearance after performances."

"I know."

Christine had encountered them after her hurried emergence from the cloakroom that morning. Thankfully, they had not seemed to notice what room she exited, expressing only their displeasure with her continual avoidance of her public and stressing the importance that she present herself to them. The unnerving moment had been interrupted by a flustered Monsieur Reyer, adamant against an orchestral change they ordered, and Christine had left, practically running for her dressing room to change into costume and make it to rehearsal on time.

"At Erik's counsel, I told them that with your recent rise in status and salary, you have let an apartment close to the opera. This will explain your nightly disappearances from the theater, as they are not the only ones who have questioned your whereabouts."

Christine nodded in relief, having wondered how her absences would be construed. It had not overly worried her, content to leave such details to her wise Maestro's orchestration, just as he had cleverly maneuvered all else to remove any barriers that might impede their new life together.

Her hand wandered to her bodice, her fingers pressing the hidden rings.

"They made a prerequisite you are to follow," Madame went on. "One night, at the end of each week, you are to make yourself available to your public. As tonight is the final performance for the week, you must remain after the last curtain call. Beginning next weekend, you may choose what night you will stay."

The knowledge that she would be required to mingle with so many strangers, all of them intently focused on her, was alleviated only slightly in knowing she would be in her husband's company for the next two full days.

"Does Erik know?"

"I will tell him when he visits my office tonight, before the performance."

Christine frowned, seeing no way out of it, remembering how he had sided with Madame once before on this subject. She also recalled the endless clouds of cigar and cigarette smoke and the claustrophobic press of people. "The bathtub from Il Muto is still in the dressing room. May I have use of it again tonight?"

Madame smiled in sympathy. "I will see to it, my dear. It is a prop that will likely not be used in another opera any time soon. I see no reason it cannot stay concealed behind the screen for your use whenever you wish it."

Her generosity piqued Christine's guilt on a matter never fully addressed and she hung her head, feeling like a disruptive child. "I apologize for the cracked mirror."

"It _is_ your personal dressing room, Christine. Arrangements have been made to have the mirror replaced. However, I would hope you will cause no further damage?"

Christine nodded, still not looking at her.

"I will not ask why it happened. But do remember my offer, my dear." She lowered her voice in confidentiality. "Any time you wish to speak of a matter that troubles you with regard to your newly wedded status, I am here to listen and advise." She patted her shoulder, her soft expression instantly reverting to her usual strict demeanor. "And now, you have matters to attend, as do I. The break lasts a quarter hour. Please do remember that and return promptly."

"Yes, Madame."

Christine hurried to her dressing room. Her eyes turned to the mirror in the hope that he would be there.

One of the seamstresses hurried from behind the screen and caught sight of her. "Oh! Pardon, Mademoiselle."

Christine smiled. "That's all right. I'm…" she glanced at the bundle of clothes in the woman's arms. "…sorry I left things in disorder." The managers had made her late and she hadn't been tidy, but she didn't wish to come across as inconsiderate, like La Carlotta.

The seamstress darted her a wary look as if not expecting the apology. "I was instructed to make more of each costume, as extras."

Christine turned to hide the deep blush that attacked her face. "Of course." She awkwardly cleared her throat and again glanced at the stout redhead. "You are Dulscia, the seamstress that my…" she barely caught herself from saying husband, "…manager selected for my personal needs?"

When in the chorus, she had rarely associated with the costumers, her only contact a few scheduled fittings and always under Madame's watchful eye, in a room packed with other dancers. There had been no opportunity for cozy chats.

The skittish woman gave a nod. "Oui, mademoiselle."

Christine smiled kindly. "Please, call me Christine. I…thank you for repairing my costume last week. In my haste to change I'm not always careful." The memory of Erik's swift unveiling made her suck in a breath she hoped went unnoticed. Warmth flashed through her face and body.

She moved to her dressing table and picked up her hairbrush, running it through the bottom of her ringlets she gathered in one hand.

"Do you have family, Dulscia?"

"A small daughter. She lives with my mother."

"Not with you?" Immediately she wished to retrieve the words. She sometimes forgot that except for young ballet rats in training, children did not inhabit the opera house. She faced the woman again. "I'm sorry, that was thoughtless."

"Non. It is alright. I miss my teeninesy, of course, but I'm grateful for this position." Dulscia nervously shifted from one foot to the other. "I should go, before Madame Giry comes looking for me. I don't wish to get in trouble again." The woman bobbed a nod and hurried for the door.

Christine wondered what trouble, but this time chose discretion and did not inquire.

.

**xXx**

.

The day progressed with its usual harried, rigid pattern. The performance went well, though Christine found it difficult to become Aminta when so many questions revolved inside her own mind. She gave her best, and the audience seemed not to notice any slight flaws, though she was sure her Maestro would.

Backstage, Meg stayed faithfully by her side as two journalists moved in for the kill.

"We were told you disappeared after last night's performance," one reporter stated, "just as you did on both opening nights of Hannibal and this production. Some link your disappearances to a living ghost within the opera house who has terrorized and still haunts the theater. Would you care to remark on that, mademoiselle?"

Christine stared at the prying journalist in horrified shock, wondering who could have told him.

"A ghost?" She forced a laugh and shook her head "I jealously guard my privacy, monsieur, and prefer my solitude. I have let a room near the opera house and often leave discreetly after a performance. To sing the lead in an opera of this caliber is very demanding. I require my rest afterward, so as to perform well on the next occasion. I do not wish to prove a disappointment for anyone."

He narrowed his eyes as if unsure whether to believe all she said but nodded. A few more questions involving her personal life reaped ambiguous results and her insistence that she kept such things private. At last Madame stepped forward and shooed the reporters away. However, three admirers met the two girls before they could reach the dressing room. After courteous thanks to their effusive praise and her acceptance of their flowers, Christine at last made it to her room.

"Whew," Meg gasped, locking the door behind them and pressing her back to it with her palms against the wood. "At least that's done for a week. The way that last man was gushing, I thought he would start slavering over your hand."

Christine shuddered at the memory, wiping the dampness of said hand on her skirt. She laid the flowers down, pleased to smell the rich scent of rose oil on water and hastened behind the dressing screen. Meg joined her, helping her out of her costume.

Growing up in a ballet dormitory and sharing a changing room with other female dancers had long erased any awkwardness when the pair of friends had been flat-chested girls with boyish hips who, with the advent of time, mysteriously altered into women. Even then, despite occasional giggles and naughty comments, along with curious comparisons of their budding femininity, there had been no bashfulness to strip down in front of each other. It was normal, an ingrained part of routine life. Thus, Christine removed every stitch of clothing without giving it a thought and turned to Meg, holding her hand out for her wrapper. Meg cast a speculative eye over Christine's figure, taking in every inch.

"Well, you certainly look no different," she deadpanned.

Christine stuck out her tongue in mock annoyance and snatched the wrapper from Meg's outstretched hand, tying it around herself to hide the flush her white skin betrayed at the reference to her new role as Erik's bride.

"At least tell me this, though I'm not asking for details, mind you. I think I've put most of it together, but…" Meg hesitated. "Does it hurt dreadfully like I heard a few girls say?"

Seeing her friend's genuine fear and remembering her own long-held trepidation, Christine decided to relent and tell her that much.

"Yes. But the pain goes away after a bit, and when it's with the man you love and who loves you, it's not that much of a hindrance. The pain never happens again after the first time."

Meg nodded thoughtfully then whispered, "What does it feel like? No, I don't mean -" She blushed. "I mean at first."

"It burns. A lot. There's blood, but not a lot…"

Meg's eyes went huge. "Blood?"

Her friend had a low tolerance for the life-giving matter. At the sight of even a drop from a wound, Meg would blanch and grow faint, though she was every bit as brave as Christine, more so in some cases.

"Well, look at me," she said with a reassuring laugh and enthused flourish of her arms. "Do I look like I'm at death's door or ever was?"

"No. As a matter of fact I've never seen your eyes and skin glow like that."

"Really?" Christine hurried to the vanity and took a seat, peering intently into the mirror.

"Don't worry." Meg followed and stood behind, automatically taking the rose from Christine's hair and twisting it in a knot to pin as the girls often did for each other when a hairdresser was absent. "No one can tell that you're not an innocent anymore. If I didn't know, I would never have guessed. I would just assume the glow came from happiness."

Christine looked at her friend's reflection with relief. "Thank you, Meg. I did wonder."

Meg's eyes lightened with sudden eagerness.

"Oh! I have something for us."

She hurried to a far table and brought back a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Christine scrunched her nose in distaste, recalling the one sip on her debut, and Meg laughed and poured, handing her a glass.

"Oh, this isn't the usual cheap sewer water the managers hand out to the performers. Charles took this from their private stash. It's some of the best there is. He hid it and kept it on ice all afternoon."

Christine looked uncertainly at the pale golden liquid continuing to bubble and froth even after Meg poured. "I am reminded of the lines from Macbeth - "Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and caldron bubble…"

Meg laughed in glee and toasted her. "For a charm of powerful trouble, like a hell-broth boil and bubble." She tipped the glass to her lips and drained it in a few quick swallows.

"Meg!" Christine laughed at her recklessness. "And there's more that comes in between."

Meg waved a careless hand. "And you _never_ _once thought_ that a scene with witches conjuring a spell was a strange thing for an actual heavenly angel to relate to you?"

Christine pretended haughty disdain and rose from the chair. "I was only eleven."

"Even so, Christine!"

Christine took a sip and found it pleasant, sweeter than what she'd had at her debut, but leaving a gentle tickle in her throat and stomach and a warm feeling that smoothly bubbled through her blood. "Alright, perhaps I did wonder at his selection of literary tales, and there were other times I questioned." She moved toward the bath, untying her wrapper as she went. "Yet who was I, but a lowly ballet rat, to question such omniscience?"

She discarded her wrapper. Still holding her glass, she stepped into the silky water, a little on the hot side, but such a pleasure to muscles tried and tested all day long. She took a longer swallow as Meg dragged a stool close to join her. Slipping off her shoes, Meg rested her stocking feet upon the rim of the tub and stared at Christine.

"The water must be terribly hot. Your skin is nearly the color of the rouge on your face."

"It's worth it, with how it makes me relax and the aches go away. You really should try it some time." Christine moved a wet hand along her cheeks to wash the stage makeup away. "Better?"

"If you like stripes."

Christine splashed her and Meg squealed, laughing. Christine sat up and leaned forward, holding out her glass. "More please."

Meg grinned and poured. "So, it isn't the witch's brew you thought."

"Oh, hush."

Between them they quickly drained the bottle in between fits of giggling and reminiscing. To Christine's surprise, Meg produced a second.

"Meg, where on earth…"

"I told you Charles can be industrious," she said, releasing the cork with a loud pop and pouring the liquid frothing from the bottle into their glasses. "According to Charles, the managers have quite the stash."

A twinge of guilt struck. "Perhaps we shouldn't…"

"_Really_, Christine?" Meg shook her head and laughed. "We've emptied one, so any remorse you may now have is terribly misplaced. We're actually helping them. Before a revolution can develop they want to enjoy all their little luxuries in the chance they're stolen away. What can't be salvaged will go to waste. Charles overheard Firmin talk with Andre, when he saw them descend to the first cellar where they keep this. And surely they can't drink it _all_…"

Christine didn't want to think about sobering subjects like possible revolutions. She wanted to linger in the delightful effects of the golden nectar of the grape.

"Alright, you convinced me." She accepted the refill. "Madame told me earlier that Erik might be late, and I have the next two days free to enjoy with him. So I have cause to celebrate."

"Lucky devil. I wish I'd get a reprieve." Meg rubbed her propped foot alongside the other.

"If you'd like me to get out so you can try the bath before the water grows cold…"

Meg looked curiously at the silky, almost transparent water. "I don't think I can move off this chair."

Christine giggled. "I'm not sure I can move either." She took another delicious swallow and twiddled with the rings between her breasts. "It really is hard to believe Charles is that awful Chantel's cousin. They're nothing alike."

Meg nodded. "Cruelty certainly doesn't run in the blood."

Christine smiled slyly. "I have long thought you and he might find common ground, especially after that night he kissed you."

Meg rolled her eyes and Christine noticed her usually graceful friend slouched against the wall, ready to fall off her stool. Christine also felt boneless, having somehow sunk lower in the water. The back of her hair was damp. So much for pinning it up to keep it dry.

"That kiss meant nothing. You know who I like."

"Hm, yes. Le Vicomte. Is that why you wanted the facts of what goes on in the boudoir?"

"Christine!" Meg's eyes went round in shock. "I can't believe that just came from your lips."

"Well, they're no longer virgin ones - many times over," she giggled naughtily, and Meg let out another squeal of scandalized merriment.

Christine grinned, flushing at her brazen words. She should be ashamed of her wicked tongue or that she no longer cared to act proper. It must be the champagne that loosened all inhibition and made her want endlessly to laugh…

She held out her glass for more.

Meg emptied the bottle between them.

"Christine…?"

At the unexpected sound of his beautiful voice, she froze and sat up with a splash, all lethargy gone.

"_Erik!_" she whispered.

"What shall we do?" Meg asked, as if they'd been caught in a matter of national espionage.

"Tell him to join us, of course." Smiling, Christine drained what was left in her glass.

"Christine!" Meg whispered back, horrified. "Not with me sitting here, and you naked as a mermaid in the water! It would be too strange for words. Tell him to wait."

Christine gained a perverse enjoyment in watching her level-headed friend behave so flustered, when usually it was the other way around. "Oh, don't be such a silly goose. It's not like he's going to take me right here in the bath with you watching."

This brought Meg's shocked gasp, shared grins, and another chorus of embarrassed, wicked giggles from both of them.

.

**xXx**

.

Erik stood in the entrance of the mirror and raised his brow in confusion at the girlish laughter and heightened whispers coming from behind a second screen in the dressing room. With his sharp hearing, he could _almost_ detect their meaning. The syllables were not precise enough to form comprehensible words.

"Come to me, my darling Angel," Christine lilted in a sing-song voice.

"NO - don't!" Meg giggled. "She'll be out in a moment."

Several splashes and a low thud, followed by more shared giggles explained the situation. Erik lowly chuckled and shook his head.

"Do you need some help, my dear?"

"Yes!"

"No!" Meg frantically countered. "She's fine, monsieur. Just a minute more."

A long drawn-out sound of water rushing into the bathtub from a rising body came, followed by small thuds as if palms hit the wall for balance. There was a bit of hurried commotion, more loud whispers and giggles, and his wife and her friend stumbled around the screen. Both Christine's loosely tied wrapper and Meg's costume were spotted with large water stains. Christine's hair lay damp, half around her shoulders and half pinned up. Her eyes shone unnaturally bright and her cheeks were flushed.

She moved toward him on unsteady feet. He caught her as she fell into him.

"Sorry, my love." She giggled. "The heated water made me dizzy."

Her body was fresh and warm from the bath, sweet with the scent of roses, and instantly he went hard. She reached for his face with both hands. For a moment he feared she would unmask him in front of Meg, but she only brought him down for a kiss, one she eagerly deepened, slipping her tongue full into his mouth. Her taste held a sweet fruitiness with a mild bitter tang that told him it was alcoholic.

She stroked her hands across his wide shoulders and down his arms. Her robe slid from one small shoulder and would have fallen down, exposing her breast completely if Erik did not grab it to stop its descent. His hand shaking, he brought the cloth safely back into place. Meg nervously giggled and Erik broke free of his amorous wife with a tight smile.

"You two have been celebrating." It was not so much a condemnation as an unasked question.

"I don't have to work for the next two days." Smiling, Christine laid her hand against his jaw, turning him toward her. "Kiss me, Erik. I want to celebrate with you…"

Before he could form a mild protest, she brushed her lips to his, the tip of her tongue running inside his lips. To his shock, she suddenly pressed harder, pushing him back the few inches against the mirror with her body. He groaned low in need but somehow forced himself to hold her at a distance. She was going to drive him mad from wanting her!

He could order Meg to leave, lock the door, and allow this tête-à-tête of passionate madness to run its fiery course, but he sensed that Madame might search out her daughter, and wanted no interruptions like before. He would rather take his bride to their sanctuary of solitude and make violent love to her there.

"You should get dressed, my dear."

Gently he disengaged her arms from where she had wrapped them tightly around his waist. The little minx brought her hand between them as she pulled away, sweeping her fingers lightly against his erection. His shaft instantly responded to her touch, swelling larger. One look into her innocent eyes with their seductive twinkle and he knew it was no accident.

"Help me dress?" The opposing message in them asked for his help to _un_dress.

If he remained one moment longer, Meg's virgin eyes would cease to reside at whatever scale of innocence they still knew. He had not yet learned to master control when near his voluptuous bride, his former attempts half-hearted at best, the prospect twice as difficult with her soft, nearly nude body draped against his hard one like warm, willing velvet.

"I will return for you," he said hoarsely.

"You're leaving?" Christine's eyes filled with sudden worry.

"For a short time. Meg, will you help Christine to dress?"

"Of course, Monsieur Phantom." She giggled and swayed on her feet, trying to curtsey. "I will be most happy to help the wife of the great Opera Ghost Angel."

Erik wondered at the logic of asking the blind to lead the blind, or in this case, the hopelessly intoxicated, but there was no help for it. He needed temporary escape from this madness!

Before he could retrace his path through the mirror, Christine grabbed the edges of his cloak and kissed him again. He found it ironic that once more he pushed her from him, when all he wanted was to sweep her into his arms and carry her damp, nearly naked body away. But that was a sure method to illness in these deathly cold catacombs.

"Hurry back, my love," she called mournfully as if he was going to war.

Nervous of what she might do in his absence, Erik hastened through the dark passageways.

He often engaged in the customary glass of wine with a meal and the occasional snifter of brandy. Only once, years ago, had he drunk himself to the point of oblivion in trying to forget his misery. It had been enough. Erik wanted no further experience with anything that seized every ounce of intelligence and control he preferred to master. After that one time, he could remember little of what he'd done, shocked the next morning to discover broken glass all around and a table half submerged in the lake. Using his experience as a guide in how to manage Christine, he realized the long walk home would be laughable. He doubted she would use violence as a vehicle in the loss of her cerebral capacity, but he worried what a young woman, so full of life and beauty, _would_ do and questioned his own intellect at leaving her behind.

He might have to carry her a great distance, and though he was bodily fit and she was lightweight, more than an hour of such walking would wind any man. Hastening in the direction of the stables, he secured and saddled Cesar with a welcome pat and took the old stallion to the fourth cellar where the passage made such travel possible.

On his return to the dressing room, he was relieved to find Christine dressed and ready, half expecting…well, he hadn't known what to expect. He had never seen her in this condition but observed enough over the years to realize each person took to excessive drink differently. His mode had been violence. Some men passed out cold. Others grew boisterous or extremely foolish, as one scene shifter who stripped down to nothing and ran the entire length backstage on a dare. Thank all the gods existing Meg hadn't talked Christine into doing that!

The girls squeezed hands in farewell and giggled, always with the giggling. Meg handed his wife a soft leather satchel and whispered something in her ear. Like two naughty schoolgirls they blushed and Christine nodded with a smile that led to more giggling from the pair. Erik did not condemn Christine her close friendship with Meg, but felt left out in the cold as they shared secrets he had no part of.

"Christine, we must go." His words came out terse and impatient. If she noticed his present mood, she didn't acknowledge it but walked toward him with a smile, her hair now a dry cloud of soft, brushed curls, her cloak covering her head to toe. She snuggled to his side and wrapped her arm around his waist. A bit of his annoyance faded.

"Meg," he said, "tell your mother that Cesar will need returned to his stall."

"Cesar is here?" Christine's eyes became over-bright like a child who just learned Father Christmas had visited. "Oh, he's such a sweet horse. Can I bring him an apple? Oh, wait. I don't have an apple…"

"I can get you an apple," Meg offered.

"Could you?" Christine asked hopefully. Meg nodded and turned for the door, wobbling a little and unsteady on her feet.

"Wait!" Erik shook his head in disbelief at their inability to remember the dangers. He felt like he was dealing with two naive children, reminded of his early years with Christine when he warned her she must never speak of her Angel to anyone. "There's no time for that." At the sight of his Angel's trembling lips and tearing eyes, he hastily added, "Meg, tell your mother to take Cesar an apple when she collects him. Then you should go to your dormitory and to bed. Christine, come along. It's late."

He grabbed her hand and pulled, seeking escape before anyone could enter or knock. He was surprised no one had yet tried.

In the gloomy passages, Christine showed not one trace of fearful restraint though he made sure to chase away the darkness with flames of light, something he'd forgotten in his mad rush to get to her earlier. Her equilibrium had returned somewhat, and she pranced ahead like a child, squealing with glee each time a candle would flare to life before her.

"Oh, do that again, Mon Ange!"

She clapped her hands with each magical brilliance of flame and skipped a little dance, her enchanting voice sweetly lilting through the hollow chambers in gay Swedish folk songs that belonged to sunny meadows. Erik glimpsed what she must have been like as a child dancing and singing to her father's fiddle. A willowy angel, bringing her own inner light to these shadowy corridors, she completely entranced him. It was difficult to remain aloof, his irritation with her earlier conduct dissipating like a ray of the sun breaking through a storm cloud.

She backtracked toward him and grabbed his hand, pulling him. "Come along - you're _so slow! _Turtle slow_._" She giggled.

Erik kept his usual pace but gave in to her request, careful to restrain her when they approached a trap she'd clearly forgotten until he could get them safely across again. Her eyes widened theatrically and she tiptoed slowly, though there was no need since he'd disabled it, then she again burst into song, dancing, twirling, and running ahead to where the candlelight ended then back again to encourage his hastened pace as he re-enabled the trap.

By the time they reached the third level, she was naturally breathless and exhausted. Erik swept her up into his arms and continued their trek. She mewed, content, then nestled her face into his neck, kissing his earlobe and biting it. He shivered. She untied the mask, pulling it away. Her lips and tongue caressed his scars, causing him to tremble.

"Christine, so help me, if you do not cease with your torments, I will take you right here against the cave wall."

She giggled, the tip of her tongue making a slow trace against the inner rim of his half ear.

He set her down promptly and moved her back against the stone, his hands going to her hips and forcing her flush against his hardness. She groaned clutching his bottom inside his cloak, holding him to her as his mouth crushed hers. He thrust once against her stomach and she met his urgent movement with an arch of her hips. Her moan instantly became a pitiful whimper, her squirming no longer in pleasure.

"Stop…"

"What's wrong?" He rasped.

"The wall is poking me," she complained.

Their surroundings were not compatible for enjoyable trysts of passion, the rock in this cellar made of coarse stone, uneven and protruding in places. He relented, moving away and pulling her along with him.

"That is not all that will be poking you if you continue to misbehave."

She giggled like the alluring vixen she was and he shook his head dryly at his juvenile remark, a turn of phrase he never would have uttered, even thought, before bringing Christine completely into his life.

Once they reached the fourth level, nothing would do but that she petted and cooed over Cesar in welcome, apologizing to him profusely for not bringing an apple. Somehow she managed not to slide off the saddle and kept her seat though Erik kept a watchful eye trained on her. Once they reached the boat at the fifth cellar, she repeated her affectionate administrations to the horse in farewell, until Erik intervened.

"Come, Christine," He pulled her away by the shoulders and picked up his inebriated wife in his arms, setting her carefully in the boat. The horse had likely received more attention from her in these last several minutes than it had known in its lifetime.

Erik poled them through the first canal, shocked to feel his cloak suddenly wrenched open. Christine grabbed him around one leg and clung, whisking his cloak around herself. He barely managed to keep himself and the boat upright. She nuzzled against his thigh, her lips a breath away from the blatant desire throbbing within his trousers.

"Mmm…you're so warm," she mewed like a kitten.

He looked down in stunned disbelief to see her upper body hidden within his cloak. His heart thundering, he watched the material-covered bulge of her head undulate and felt the light press of her lips in a kiss against his scrotum.

_Good God!_ She had never done that before.

"Christine!" he warned hoarsely, barely managing to keep his severely shaking hands from dropping the pole to the bottom of the lake.

Through the trousers she kissed up his throbbing length and he groaned, his eyes fluttering closed then flying open at the feel of her fumbling to undo the fastenings. She managed two of them, pulling the cloth away and pressing her soft lips to the curly hair that grew there. Her soft cool nose brushed the top of his shaft while turning her cheek to his skin, and the very tip of her tongue flicked him.

With a shuddering gasp, he reached inside his cloak and grabbed her ringlets, desperately pulling her head away. She gave a sound of protest, but if he allowed this dual path of discovery, he was sure to lose his mind, his sense, and his balance - overturn the damnably narrow lightweight boat and dump them both into the freezing lake!

Her hand followed the forced exodus of her head and she looked up at him with sulky, seductive eyes and wet, glistening lips.

Yes, it was inevitable. She would kill him before they even made it to the lair.

"I thought you would like that," she murmured in clear disappointment.

"Not while I'm steering us to shore," he retorted brusquely between clenched teeth, his voice stern in his pent up frustration. "Have a little sense, Christine, and _behave yourself!_"

"Fine." With an offended pout she turned from him and stretched out on her stomach, folding her hands over the prow and resting her chin on top of them.

Erik did not know whether to bless or curse the silence that followed and kept her mind occupied. His movements with the pole became almost frenzied. What masochistic tendency had caused him to design their home so damnably far from her dressing room?

At last they made it through the final canal and the portcullis came in sight. Erik flicked the underwater lever to raise the gate, moving them to shore as fast as he was able to make the boat glide. He jumped out when the bow barely scuffed the rocks and turned in anticipation to take his wife into his arms.

She had not moved. Her eyes remained closed, her breathing steady and gentle.

Erik stared in incredulity to see that his passionate bride lay fast asleep.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Poor Erik. ;-)**

**Never fear, this night is far from over…**

**I had/am having fun writing Christine's first experience drunk, (while trying to stay true to her character. lol) Not to worry though, I have no plans of making her a lush. Trivia: Champagne of the 19th century was different than today's bitter offerings. It was very sweet from what my research showed, since they sugared it when making it…**


	43. Thrill on Your Tongue of Stolen Sweets

**A/N: A little more fun, if you please…not sure how to explain. My mind just takes off on these wild little jaunts of madness and I find myself writing such scenes as what follows - but it does help build their relationship(s) on many levels, which is forwarding the plot, which is what I want…sooo…taking up from where we left off…(this chapter strongly deserves the story rating)**

* * *

**For the Thrill on Your Tongue of Stolen Sweets**

**Chapter XLIII**

**.**

Shortly after Christine and her Phantom-Angel-husband left, Meg gave into her curiosity.

Her mother always said it would get her in trouble one of these days.

She moved toward the bath and let her fingers glide through the water. Warm. Silky. Nice…she wondered how it would feel against overtaxed muscles to be submerged in such fragrant, oily liquid.

Maman had pushed her all day at practice, as always, in all likelihood because Meg was her daughter. She assumed Maman did not wish anyone to accuse her of playing favorites, and that made her so much stricter with Meg than the other girls. That was the only reason she could conceive for such criticisms of her dance, though to be fair, her mind had been focused on other things that morning and not rehearsal. When the Vicomte came to the theater to watch, her mind whirled into vacant giddiness…much like it felt right now after drinking all that delicious champagne.

She wondered if the day would ever come when she approached him, much like Christine earlier approached her Phantom - Angel of Music - Maestro - Husband - Lover - (so many endearments Christine gave him!) The sight had stunned Meg, to see her usually reserved friend act with such wanton boldness, like others in the chorus, but at the same time, different. Not simply lust, oh there had been that, but also intense love caught with passion that burned between the two and which she had glimpsed in a more modest fashion at their wedding. Tonight's bold glance into their union had sparked within Meg the desire to live out her own ardent fairytale.

She never thought the day would dawn when she would engage in such flights of fancy. But then, she had always warned Christine to pull her head out of the clouds, and opposite of that advice, Christine clung fast to her rosy dreams - dreams she now lived each day and took pleasure in every night.

Perhaps Meg had been wrong. Perhaps there was something to be said for fairytales. And blue-eyed princes. And the best champagne…

Sitting on the floor, where she somehow found herself, Meg grinned and relaxed against the rim of the bathtub, her chin pressed to her hand. She had no wish to leave this safe, warm haven and run into her mother, who would likely scold her for her condition, so decided to remain in the dressing room indefinitely. Maybe the entire night.

She giggled at the absurd idea while staring at the sweet-scented water.

Well, maybe several minutes more at least…

Giggling in anticipation of the new experience, she shed her prostitute costume as an accomplice to Don Juan and eased into the water, lying back until it reached her neck. Oh! What a strange experience to feel liquid encased around the entirety of her flesh! So much different than a sponge bath. But this manner of bathing wasn't at all a displeasure. This was…rather nice. No wonder Christine favored it.

The water could be somewhat warmer, but the temperature hadn't chilled enough to cause discomfort, and Meg leaned her head back on the rim and smiled…drifting off into daydreams mixed with fairytales and a gallant prince on his fine white charger…

.

**xXx**

.

Raoul stormed through the backstage corridors, angry that he had missed Christine again! She seemed always to slip away the moment the curtain closed on the final call, and he was sure that Phantom magician was somehow involved.

Just as he was involved with Lord Dubois's murder.

The pieces fit. Lord Dubois was last seen at the opera on opening night of the new production. The Phantom menace ruled the opera like some demented king, and through vague stories Raoul had been told, his temper could become suddenly violent, his moods erratic and changeable. The madman used a unique lasso, a duplicate to the one found around Lord Dubois's neck.

Who else could the villain be but the Phantom!

His next step toward ridding the theater of its threat would be to engage the gendarmes and formulate a plan to capture the wily Opera Ghost. First, however, he must speak to Christine. He did not wish her hurt, even have her in the vicinity, when an arrest was made. For some reason she cared for the lunatic, likely because he was her teacher and she felt she owed him her loyalty. The one laudable act the Phantom could call worthy - he had made her voice into a tool of beauty, more enthralling and powerful than Raoul remembered her as a girl singing to her father's violin, near the cottage by the sea in Perros-Guirec...

A memory he could not grasp made him pause, distracted and annoyed him. Why could he not recall what lurked on the fringes of his mind? Twice before this had happened, since he'd come to the opera house. What was so damned important to remember about that summer of his youth?

He came in sight of Christine's dressing room. An arrogant nod of dismissal toward three cast members loitering near the painted double doors had them scuttle away like mice upset by the sudden presence of a cat. Raoul would rather not always rely on the highhanded benefits of his title and patronage of the theater, but he had learned quickly that absolute authority seemed the only language that many of these thespians understood.

He knocked but heard no answer, hesitating before trying the knob. He did not want to contact the gendarmes until he had opportunity to speak with Christine, but time was imperative. Finding the door locked, he knew she must be inside and knocked more forcefully.

"Christine, I must speak with you!"

A moan came muffled through the door.

"Christine?" He jiggled the handle harder. "Christine, let me in!"

Another sluggish moan. "_No - don't! Please!_" The words came faint but emphatic in their distress.

His worry flared upon remembering that first night he discovered she'd been locked into this room when he left her to change so they could go to supper - and he had heard the chilling voice sing so eerily for his "Angel of Music" to come to him.

Was the Phantom menace attacking her? Hurting her? Dear God, _raping_ her?

Without another thought, Raoul kicked in the door with a crash as he should have done then. A loud exclamation came from behind a screen in the far corner and he raced toward it, wishing he had a pistol or even his sword.

He turned the corner and abruptly stopped, his mind frozen - staggered to see Meg popping to sit up in equal shock, every inch of her lush body wet and unclothed and in full view as she sat in a bathtub.

"Monsieur!" she gasped, splashing back into the water to her neck and pulling up her knees, her small hands trying to cover her generous curves and miserably failing.

Thankfully, she didn't scream but he stared for seconds longer than he should have, not even realizing he stared, before closing his mouth and hastily turning away.

"Forgive me. I - heard you moan. I thought -"

"What has happened?"

Madame Giry rushed into the room, hesitating to see Raoul. She quickly closed the broken door as best she could, then curiously moved toward him. Still shaken, he paused, uncertain how to explain.

"Vicomte?"

"Madame..."

Her eyes grew huge as she moved around the screen.

**"Meg!" **

"_Oh, God…_" Covering her face with both hands, Meg slipped down until her head was beneath the water.

.

**xXx**

.

With a tense sigh of frustration, Erik considered what to do. Clearly his intoxicated and unconscious siren of a wife was in no shape for anything but sleep, but by God if he would let her sleep in a boat!

He whisked off his cloak, leaving it on the stone bank where it landed, secured the gondola, then moved toward her. Trying to lift her from this angle and from the shaky foundation of water with no support to brace himself would be next to impossible. He had no choice but to wake her.

"Christine?" he prompted. She did not budge and he raised his voice. "_Christine!_"

"Mmm?" She mumbled, lifting one sleepy eyelid. "Erik, hello." She closed it again.

He cursed beneath his breath and bent to clasp her arm, forcing her to sit up. "Stand to your feet, my Angel. Come now…What did you drink tonight?" he grunted, pulling her higher when she remained practically boneless.

She batted her long, thick eyelashes open and put her hands to his shoulders. "Drink?"

"Yes, drink."

With difficulty he managed to haul her to an upright position. Thankfully, her legs once more began to work and she stepped out of the boat. She caught sight of the leather satchel Meg gave her and reached sideways to grab it, almost falling into the gondola headfirst, but for Erik's restraining arm which never released her. She slipped the strap over her wrist. He wondered what was so damn important about that satchel.

"Oh, um…some champagne."

She fell against him as her slippered feet touched the bank.

"You should eat a meal."

"I'm not hungry. I just was dizzy after sleeping on the water, but I'm fine now. I think though I will lie down."

She could barely seem to keep her heavy eyelids open. She gave him a giddy smile and he waited for the endless giggles to start anew.

"Yes, perhaps that is for the best," he agreed when she remained motionless.

She turned her back to him. "Help me with my cloak?" Her hands went to the clasps.

"Of course."

She shed the heavy fabric...

Which slipped unnoticed from his hands and pooled to the ground.

He stared at her, open-mouthed.

She wore what vainly hoped to be a chemise, scraps of gossamer lace and thin satin reaching mid-thigh, narrow straps of the same lace brushing bare shoulders. Through the slightly clinging material, the planes, shadows and delectable curves of her long back and firm round bottom could be seen. Her long legs were unadorned, the slim toned limbs so pale, so perfect…

She had never worn anything so provocative. His mouth went dry, sparks of warmth simmering in every vein and collecting below his waistband.

She took a few surprisingly somewhat balanced steps then stopped and looked playfully over her shoulder.

"Take me to bed, Erik."

In two swift moves she was in his arms. Giggling, she hooked her slender wrists at his nape then yawned, rubbing her nose into his neck as he quickly moved with her to their bedchamber. He laid her down, sat near her at the edge and rapidly shed waistcoat, cravat, shoes and short stockings, uncaring of where they landed. Unbuttoning his collar button he turned back to her. Again he noticed how still she lay, her eyes closed with not a flicker of her lashes.

Despite the earlier invigorating effects of the vine, she now appeared exhausted. He had sensed her struggle onstage and noticed the slight strain in her voice when reaching the coloratura notes. At the time, he had planned to address that when they again met.

Continuing to stare at the vision she created, her face angelic, her small, full breasts prominently displayed against semi-transparent ivory silk, the tempting shadow between her legs no less concealed, he struggled within himself to lunge on top of her like the feral beast inside begged him, or let her rest like a good husband should. He never counted himself as noble, but for Christine he would sacrifice anything, even his own desire - and how many times had he done just that!

With a sigh he covered her with the crimson sheet and turned to walk from the bed. She caught his hand before he could move away.

"How can I relax if you don't lie beside me?" she whispered sweetly without opening her eyes.

"I should go work…"

"Please, Erik…I need you with me."

With every muscle as tense as tightly-strung catgut, he gave in to her plea, the lure of her unrelenting, even if only to be near her. Awkwardly he stretched out on his back a short distance from where she lay. He had done this before, when he lay ill. Yes, and how difficult it had been not to touch her when he awakened! He stared at the canopy above then shut his eyes.

_Oh, torment of anguish, thy name is Erik._

Christine giggled, followed by the rustle of satin. Before he could blink his eyes open, she had rolled over and was sprawled on top of him.

"Oh, that was fuzzy," she said, clutching his shoulders as if she might fall and looking decidedly lightheaded.

Erik gaped at her, still in the moment where he was bemoaning his sad misfortune, his mind just becoming cognizant that his wife had thrown off the sheet and her delectable body lay pressed against him. "Fuzzy?"

"Mm," she agreed, brushing her lips against his neck. Her fingers went to the first fastened button and awkwardly parted it, her mouth going to the skin she bared. He groaned, the warmth of his blood surging with every lick of her tongue and pop of a button. Impatiently she grabbed the edges of his shirt in tight fists and pulled. The remaining buttons flew.

"Oopsie," she giggled and buried her face in his stomach, her fingers moving downward to his trouser fastenings.

Oopsie?

"Christine," he gasped then gave a helpless chuckle at the strange and unfamiliar sensations she produced that made him want to flinch away and laugh at the same time. He had felt traces of it before with her, but not to this extent. "Exactly _how much_ champagne did you drink?" he managed between huffs of breath. He grabbed her head to stop her.

"Two…and a half." She giggled against his chest.

Two and a half fluted glasses? Such a moderate portion should not affect her so strongly, but then he had never tried the substance, assuming it to be the same as white wine. Clearly it was more potent.

Her lips traced down to his navel, her fingers pulling at the last fastening of his trousers. Again she moved her hands in such a way above his hips that made him flinch and draw back with a chuckle. "Stop that!"

Her head lifted, awareness filling her eyes which grew as wide and bright as her smile. "Why, Erik - _you're ticklish!_"

"What do you mean tick - stop it, I say!" He laughed though he did not wish to, helpless to control it.

She pressed her open lips against the side of his stomach and blew out a gust of rumbling air. He could not refrain from a gasping snort of a chuckle.

_"Christine!"_

She giggled and blew more strongly; he tossed and chuckled fitfully. Grabbing her head, he pulled her away, but she only brought her hands up and they produced their own method of torture to his sides in little jabs of wiggling fingertips.

His laughter came harsh, uncontrolled, as he writhed to get away, and he grabbed her wrists, forcing them from his torso. Grabbing her beneath the arms he hauled her up and flipped her on her back so fast, it made his own head spin.

"Fuzzy…" she breathed, eyes half closed.

"I'll give you fuzzy," he growled in seductive promise.

His mouth took fiery refuge in her neck, tracing every sensitive spot he had ever found there. She gasped and pulled at the back of his shirt. Hungry to have her he righted himself to tear the damned thing away. The trousers she had undone followed. Straddling her legs, he looked down at the wisp of lace and silk he didn't recognize as having given to her that now shielded what belonged to him.

"This," he rasped, curling the fingers of both hands in the plunging neckline. "Where?"

Her glazed eyes lifted from his prominent arousal, standing tall and rigid and eager to embrace its mate.

"Costume room," she panted. "A new chemise never - _**used!**_"

She squealed the last word as he tore the flimsy scrap top to bottom and gazed with hungry appreciation at the unsurpassed beauty of his voluptuous goddess within. He fell upon her then, his mouth devouring skin, breast and nipple as she clung to him, wrapping herself about him and filling the chamber with her musical sighs and moans.

He could not get enough of her, feasting on every quivering morsel of sweet white flesh from throat to hip, then spreading her legs wide to drink there.

"ERIK!" Her rapturous cry thundered off the cavern walls. Again. And again. Sighing, moaning, sobbing. Until the chamber undulated with her symphony of passionate sound as he brought his beautiful nightingale to a shattering crescendo of burning melody. He carried her through and continued until her hands clutched his hair in fistfuls pushing him away.

"No more," she gasped.

"Why?" His own words came husky as he moved up to her. "You enjoy it. Do not deny what is blatant, Christine. And for me, to drink of your pleasure is like ambrosia to the gods…"

She moaned at his low words and nodded erratically against the pillow. "Yes, yes, I enjoy it. But there's a part of me…after…too sensitive. Too much." Her syllables still came a trifle sluggish and unsteady but somehow she seemed more lucid too, all of it now due to more than over indulgence in the vine.

He pulled his brows together, taking in her words.

"Show me."

He sucked in a breath as her own hand obediently moved and her fingertips shyly ran over her most sensitive spot, swollen, pink and glistening from where his lips had just been, before she quickly moved her hand away. To see her touch herself shook him powerfully, erotic in a way he never imagined.

"And this…" He lightly pressed the broad head of his shaft against her drenched hot flesh, bending his lips to her ear. "Is this too much, Christine?"

"Oh God, no!" she cried, her hands pressing his buttocks to force him close at the same time she arched her hips toward him. "_This_ is perfect."

"Perfect. And what of this…?" His arms supporting his body trembled as he pushed gradually into her a few inches, barely able to contain himself at the tightness of her, the heat, and he struggled several moments longer to hold onto his last grain of control.

"Perfect…?" he whispered.

She released a loud, shuddering breath.

"Or is this what you desire?" He slammed his rigid flesh the remainder of the distance, driving down deep to her core.

She cried out in rapture and plea. "Yes, yes - _all of it!_ Oh, please, Erik - _yes!_"

He clutched her beneath her thigh and slowly withdrew almost completely before easing his way back in again. Out…In. A slow easy rhythm as graceful as a ballet. Her eyes fluttered closed then halfway opened and she stared as if lost in the trance of its beauty. Her panting came synchronized with their movements.

"Kiss me," she begged.

But he was not finished.

"What of this, Christine?" His own breaths came unsteady as he never broke free from his gentle tempo. "Do you enjoy how we move together in this slow dance of seduction and shadow…a timeless meeting of souls…of hearts and bodies…lost within a perpetual moment…where sensation is all that matters…_our moment_…the glide of my hard flesh worshiping your softness…drenching myself in your pleasure…my body molding with yours…so that we are no longer two separate beings… but one unique flesh…sharing the same fierce heartbeat…the same beads of sweat…the same heated breath…"

Throughout his low, turbulent declaration, she stared up into his eyes, overwhelmed, her mouth parted wide, her breath coming in frantic gasps. Her damp skin took on a greater flush, and he could tell she approached her ecstasy. She moaned in need grabbing his neck and hauling him near, her lips partaking of his lips, her tongue laying claim to his tongue, her body moving in fluid rhythm to meet each wet stroke as he slipped so softly, almost fully, in and out of her…

Erik sucked in her bottom lip between teeth and tongue, nibbling as he broke gently away, his body sinking deep into her and going still, his eyes meeting and holding her sultry ones for a few eternal seconds…

_"Or is this what you desire?"_

Grabbing her hips tight he drew back and plunged fiercely.

She screamed then gave a frustrated whimper as if she might cry as he held there.

_"Which is it, Christine?"_

"_**This! Both!**_"

He drove hard into her then, a fiery Appassionato of relentless need, and she clung to him even more violently with each wild thrust.

"Flesh grinding flesh," he growled. "Fire and hunger unquenched…violent in its need to spread…refusing to be suppressed…**Passion!… Flame!… Desire!…Uncontrolled!… Dark!… Unfettered!**… _Beautiful_…"

She cried out hoarsely as his last word came on a velvet breath, her short nails raking his shoulders and arms. Her body went into spasms around him as another rush of her hot juices bathed his swollen flesh. Still trembling, she sighed his name in breathless adoration.

Erik reached for his own rapture, pounding into her lush core. Her hands urged him onward, stroking his skin, her eyes black as night and glowing a silent declaration of her love as he plundered her hidden depths long moments more, until the heat and sensation overwhelmed him, exploding within. He cried out, teeth clenched, his tortured body giving over to shuddering waves of nothing but pure, draining release.

Her mind hazy, her body languid with soothing heat, Christine held her dark lover to her, her legs still wrapped over his as she kept him deeply nestled inside her warm body.

"Perfect," she huskily whispered. "Want…_all of it_ …"

.

**xXx**

.

Erik smiled against her warm skin, her answer pleasing him. His lips moved in lazy little kisses against her neck as she stroked his back, and he purred like a great cat.

Christine gasped, her palms pressing flat to his skin. "How did you do that?"

"What?" he nuzzled against her. "This?"

He let out another low, undulating purr against her damp flesh, lazily bringing his mouth over her collarbone and between her breasts, her body giving little shivers all the while.

"That…is…amazing." She clutched his head to her, then grasped his shoulders, the muscles of her legs clenching against his.

Nature was taking its regrettable course and after a moment he slipped out of her, almost soft and flaccid again, grinning a little at her annoyed sound of protest, his pleasure and what little pride he had petted by her desire always to have him linger.

"I cannot fight nature, my love, as much as I would wish to try." He kissed the pebble of her breast, running his tongue around the peak in languid circles, gently sucking it against his teeth before letting it bounce back and kissing it again. Feeling her fingertips dig slightly into his scalp, he looked up at her with promise. "But we have all night."

She smiled brightly and nodded. "Will you teach me to purr?"

He raised his brow and sat up at her strange request. "You want to learn _to purr_?"

"Oh, yes. It sounds and feels…oh, yes." She nodded then giggled. "How did you learn?"

Erik thought about it. "One day, when I was a boy, I was in studied concentration in shaping my home. I made little sounds through my teeth and with my tongue and that noise came out. I never gave it much thought." He had taught himself to do so many things with his voice, hypnotizing minds, manipulating emotions. Making the contented noise of a feral animal seemed inconsequential.

She sat up on her knees and he noticed the ruined flaps of the deceased silk flowing at her sides. Gently he pulled the straps from her shoulders, letting the ruined garment fall to its resting place, then searched her eyes.

"You are not angry that I ruined your pretty lace…" He didn't know what to call it. Scrap of cloth? "I fear sometimes I cannot control what gets into me, the sudden fire that makes me wish to possess you in that moment and tear away all that prevents it."

A becoming flush tinged her skin. She pulled up the sheet, tucking it under her arms, and smiled sweetly.

"I'll forgive you if you teach me to purr."

He laughed outright at that. "Then I shall undertake my penance, if you feel it just."

He moved closer so she could see, leaving his mouth partly open, and curled his tongue against the roof of it. Lightly touching the tip there, he let the breath escape in a gentle flow of rumbling sound. She stared at his mouth as if entranced, her eyes flicking the slightest bit wider as she sucked in a soft breath.

"Christine?" There was no mistaking that look of kindling passion.

"Yes. A-alright." She tried to mimic him but failed, making a wispy sound instead.

He showed her again. She watched, this time more intent on learning the process than looking as if she might become the cat and pounce on him. After a few minutes, with no success, she slapped her hand on the bed in disgust.

"Never mind," he soothed. "We can try again when you're not so full of spirits."

"I'm always full of spirit. Oh! You mean the champagne." She giggled then suddenly popped out of bed. "I'm hungry!"

He grinned in tolerant amusement, not at all surprised.

"And I have a treat." She grabbed the satchel from where it lay at the foot of the bed. He was surprised they hadn't knocked it off with their boisterous passion play of earlier. "Come see!"

He looked her up and down. "Are you not forgetting something, my love?"

She looked at the satchel in her hand then back at him and shook her head in confusion.

"While the sight of you so gloriously unadorned is a most profound pleasure to the senses, you would not wish to catch a chill."

That faint hue of rose flushed her skin but she seemed unconcerned.

"Tonight, I'll be a nymph and flit through the chambers as I am." She skipped ahead giggling. "Nymphs don't get cold."

"Your wrapper, Christine!"

She whirled in the doorway. Falling into it, she held steady a moment, before lightly prancing back. Momentarily he forgot about clothes as he watched the entrancing bounce of dark ringlets around the jiggle of firm breasts as his tempting fairy-child wife gaily flitted toward him.

"Nymphs don't wear wrappers either. Come, slug-a-bed," she commanded sweetly, grabbing his hand. "You're going to teach me to cook.

"What - _now_?"

"Of course, can you think of a better time?"

Actually, he could.

"Christine, this is not -"

"Such a slug-a-bed!" she laughed, tugging with surprising strength.

How could he be a slug-a-bed - what a foolish term for indolence - when he felt as if he'd just gotten there? Rather than have his arm nearly wrenched from its socket with her effusive efforts, he gave in and stood.

She clasped him tightly, pressing her cheek to his collarbone, her nude body flush to his, and he felt the first stirrings of desire reawaken. She kissed his throat then pulled away, smiling, and again flitted for the door.

"Your wrapper!" he reminded.

She tossed a saucy grin over her shoulder. "If you want me to wear it, you'll have to catch me! My turtle-phantom!"

She giggled, taking off like a limber deer at the crack of a rifle's shot.

Where did such bursts of energy emerge from? One minute she weaved, the next she moved remarkably steady. And where did she come up with those ludicrous names? _Turtle-Phantom?_ It was insulting, like linking a cuddly rabbit with a striking adder. Yet it reminded him of what they were - Light. Darkness. She the bright angel, he the evil monster. For whatever reason that he might never understand, his gentle nymph-like beauty had chosen to live with the dour, hideous beast…

Though certainly no turtle!

He grabbed both wrappers, shrugging into his while hurrying after her. How difficult could it be to catch a champagne-giddy bride when matched to a Phantom's deft speed?

Apparently, with the obstacles of tables and statues and crates she dodged behind and between, not as easy as he thought, but his dexterity was no match for her insobriety. He grabbed her leg from under a table where she had darted and pulled her out, up, and against him, giving the snowy round cheeks of her bottom a firm swat, enough to pinken them.

"Ouch!" She looked at him petulantly as he draped the wrapper over her arms, practically forcing them through the sleeves and tying the sash with a decided flourish. "You're no fun," she complained.

"That's not what you said minutes ago." His countenance remained stern.

"Oh, yes. Perfect..." An instant smile spread over her face as she grabbed him hard around the waist. "Let's do that again!"

"I thought you were hungry." He hoped that sustenance might help clear her brain so she behaved less like an unruly child. After their recent passion play, he also could eat and would not pass up the idea of food before revisiting such delights with her.

"Yes." She nodded as if just remembering. "I want you to teach me to make coq au vin."

"We have no chicken."

"Then let's go get one." She seemed completely content with the idea and spun toward the boat.

He grabbed her arm before she could walk into the lake. "I am not going out in the night to catch, steal, or barter for a chicken. We will make bread pudding."

She wrinkled her nose like the fluffy rabbit he earlier thought of. "That's bland."

"Nonetheless, I am the chef. I decide." He hoped the heavy starch would help soak up some of the spirits in her blood.

She giggled, and he shook his head in exasperation. "What, Christine?"

"Do you have an apron?"

"An apron? No. Why?" He quirked his brow. "Do you require one?"

"I _knew_ you wouldn't." She smiled secretively. "Come then, Mon Ange, pudding it is, and you have yet to taste my treat!"

Alarm bells chased away the confusion as Christine hurried to the kitchen area. Suddenly he noticed - slippers. He had forgotten her slippers. And his.

"I will be there presently." He looked at her, uncertain, then decided she couldn't possibly get into any trouble for under a minute. "Stay away from the lake."

She turned to look at him. "I don't plan to swim, unless…" She tilted her head curiously. "Have you ever…?"

"NO!"

"Oh. I just wondered if the water is cold everywhere. Maybe it's warm in places, like our spring is so lovely and warm…" She giggled.

"Stay there! Don't move!"

He raced to the bedchamber. The hunt for her slippers took longer than expected, one tangled in the coverlet, and when he returned, thankfully he did not spot her head bobbing in the chill water. His worry that she might have scampered off to drown in the spring also faded when he heard her sing to him.

_"Angel of Music, my sweet companion, Come to me, dear Angel…"_

She was seated _on_ the high kitchen table, swinging her legs crossed at the ankles. The satchel lay open on the ground. In her hand was a silver goblet and on her face was a giddy smile as she beckoned to him with one finger.

"For us to share," she said, taking a swallow and holding it out to him as he approached.

He sighed heavily and took it from her hand, placing it far from her on the table. "Where did you get this?"

"Meg gave it to me. It's for us."

"You need no more spirits."

"That little bit won't hurt."

"I prefer red wine or brandy."

She thought about that. "What does brandy taste like?"

"Some day, in the very distant future, I may let you try a sip." He lifted her feet, one by one, and slipped on the soft shoes. "Not tonight."

She sighed. "The pudding?"

"Right." He looked at her warily. "Behave."

He could hardly keep an eye on her while he retrieved the necessary items from the cold chest beneath the lake. Once he returned, arms full, she greeted him with an angelic grin that bordered on impish. Suspiciously he looked into the goblet, curious that there appeared to be more there than before. Surely a trick of the reflection from the torchlight above…

"The pudding?" she reminded with a sweet smile.

He lit the stove, refusing her plea to do it, sure that with her current mode of behavior the kitchen would go up in flames. She slid off the table and he showed her how to prepare the ingredients then stir them in a saucepan. She stood beside him and watched curiously, her interest waning after a few minutes as her hand wandered in lazy circles along his backside.

"Are you paying attention?" he asked hoarsely.

Her gaze quickly lifted from his velvet-clothed bottom and she nodded sweetly.

He sighed. "The pudding must simmer over a low fire. There is little more to do but wait and stir as it cooks."

Christine grabbed the ties of his sash, pulling away from him and forcing Erik to walk with her. She slid back on the table, keeping one hand on his tie, then again lifted the goblet.

"One taste. Please, Mon Ange? I think you'll like it, it's not dry like white wine. It bubbles inside and is sweet. And if you take a sip, I'll taste your brandy."

He wondered how her sampling his brandy was suddenly a viable trade when he had not asked her to do so, but he shook his head wearily. "One taste. No brandy."

Her face lit up and she nodded, bringing the goblet to his lips, her other arm wrapping around his neck and bringing him closer, clearly intent on serving him. He allowed it, and she pushed the rim against his mouth rather awkwardly, Erik getting quite a mouthful that dribbled from the corner of his lips and down his chin. Before he could wipe it off, she giggled and licked it away, then brought the goblet to her own lips taking a healthy swallow before Erik managed to grab her wrist to stop her. This resulted in a short struggle, with much giggling from her, whereby the entire contents of the goblet splashed on Erik's chest. The bubbly mixture made a strange fizzing sensation, tickling the inside of his throat and his skin.

"Oh, you spilled it!" she mourned then smiled, setting down the empty goblet. "That's alright. I'll make it better."

"What do you - _mean!_"

His words ended in a strangled gasp as she wrenched the sodden material away and proceeded to run her mouth in long strokes from his ribs high to his chest. Her warm tongue and the cool liquid created a strange, enjoyable sensation, and when she flicked her tongue over his nipple then lightly bit, he growled, the hunger for his temptress returning en force.

He pulled her head away and kissed her, relishing the sweetness of her mouth. She pulled away for breath, her hands that had been clenching his robe now running down the front of his damp torso.

"Do you like it?" she whispered.

It took him a moment to realize what she meant.

"The taste _is_ surprisingly pleasant."

"It's the managers' best," she breathed as his lips found greater pleasure along her jaw and down the side of her neck. "Do you want more…?"

He pulled away to look at her somberly. "There's more?"

She nodded and reached behind her, producing a black bottle. "Meg gave us the rest of the third bottle. We drank the first half while waiting for you to return. Well, we spilled some too…"

"Third_ bottle?_" Realization swiftly set in. "When you said two and a half…"

She grinned impishly.

_Now_ her unpredictable and bizarre conduct made perfect sense!

"No more for you," he scolded, pulling the bottle from her hand and seeing there was only about a tenth left, if that much. His devilish little angel had been imbibing behind his back as he scurried for slippers and ingredients for pudding.

"That's all right," she said innocently, batting her lashes. "You may have the rest."

"Oh, I may, may I?"

He glared at her, and she giggled. Erik shook his head, finding it impossible to be angry. The truth was, as exasperating and unsettling as this night had begun and yet remained, she was tempestuous and beautiful and adorable when she was three sheets in a champagne wind. His gaze went to the bottle.

He wished to endeavor in as many new experiences as he could discover with his passionate bride and had found _this_ experience pleasant. Sadly, he knew that in all likelihood she would have no memory of any of this come morning. But she did have this moment. And he would never forget.

"Perhaps, I will indulge," he agreed.

Giggling and nodding in approval, Christine handed him the goblet.

He chuckled. "Oh, I have no use for that."

With a devilish smile, he pushed her wrapper aside and poured what little remained of the pale golden liquid over her collarbone and breasts, watching as it streamed to her flat belly.

Christine dropped the goblet in utter shock and gasped at the tickle of cold champagne that bubbled over sensitive flesh, the sensation strangely erotic - heightened tenfold as Erik's hot mouth closed over one tingling nipple and produced a different, deeper fire.

"I prefer my spirits over warm flesh," he whispered against her skin.

She groaned while one of his large hands supported her back, his mouth tracing over her ribs and up to her breast he held as he lapped at a trickling stream. Her wrapper fell from her shoulders, urged by Erik's hand.

Wetness pooled warm between her thighs and she shivered in desire while Erik licked every part of her skin he had wet, his attentions like traces of fire upon her breasts as he suckled every cold drop. Her legs parted, her hands moving inside his robe and pulling him closer as she leaned her head back and delighted in his touch. He moved his hand from her breast, dropping it between her thighs and sliding his fingers along the slick length of her, making her ache for him desperately.

Stripping the sash away, she found his hardness. She wanted to touch him, to learn him…o_h, how she wanted to know every bit of him!_

She gripped him carefully and stroked with the same tempo he did, thrilling when his smooth flesh jumped and swelled even more rigid in her hand.

She giggled a little, on another giddy wave. "It likes me."

He groaned and wrapped his large hand around her small one, causing her to press more firmly. Lifting his head, he crushed his mouth to her lips and returned his fingers to her wet center. Soon she was no longer laughing, the hunger too urgent. They brought each other to the edge, dangling over an abyss, until neither could take anymore.

"Please!" she gasped against his chin at the same time he forced her hand from his swollen member.

"How?" he insisted. "_Tell me!_"

"_Fire_…_Dark, hungry fire…._"

He growled to hear the echo of his earlier words in her panted whisper. Clutching her hips, he rammed deep inside her, hard and without pause. Christine gasped at yet a different sensation of his thickness filling her, and she clutched to him and the quaking table as his fierce thrusts pushed her against the wood. Her mind felt mellow, unfocused, her body prickling with sweet flaming sensation. A dull clunk and roll of glass on stone came from the ground…the bottle having fallen.

Trembling all over at a sudden blast of hot release, Christine softly cried out as her body weakened while slowly sinking lower until she lay flat on her back. He pulled her toward him, raising her hips while she held both sides of the table, her body flush with heat and wet and a sweet tingling haze as Erik gripped her hips and pounded into her until he found his own shivering apex.

Washed in his warmth and hers, Christine clung to him, and spent, he fell against her. Once the afterglow began to fade, she noticed the hard wood beneath her…and something else.

"Erik?" she whispered as they both worked to reclaim breath. "I think something's burning…"

He tensed then suddenly departed from her. She sat up, noticing a cloud of white smoke lay heavy over the saucepan. He grabbed the handle and threw the pan away from the heat to the stones, cursing and shaking his hand.

"Did you burn it?" she cried as he moved back to her.

"I think that's rather obvious."

"No, not the pudding…" She grabbed his hand and opened his fingers to inspect them. "Your beautiful hand!" She brought it to her lips, gently kissing the inside of his palm.

"I'm alright," he assured her softly. "I have endured much worse pain. But this was a bad idea."

She gave a faint giggle then winced as she shifted her hips. "A tablecloth might have been nicer to my derrière."

He looked at her in sudden concern. "You are hurt?"

"No." She scooted closer to the edge, intending to stand, and winced again.

"You _are_ hurt!"

"No, I'm fine - Erik, stop it." She tried to evade his intent of turning her over to see, giggling and slapping his hand away from her hip, but he would have none of it. Suddenly she felt herself hoisted off the table, over his shoulder, and carried to their bedchamber.

"_Erik_!" she squealed.

"I will see what I have done, Christine," he said as he threw her onto their bed and immediately rolled her over onto her stomach, with one hand to her back so she could not rise.

Erik gently ran his fingers over the angry reddened area, brushing his thumb over the smooth globes of skin and pulling her cheeks slightly apart, checking for a splinter with the trace of his fingertip. She buried her head beneath a pillow and groaned.

"Does that hurt?" he asked, sending a worried glance to the pillow that buried her, then back to her skin. He saw no welt or wood.

"Only my pride," came the woebegone, muffled response.

He worked not to chuckle at her sudden lapse back into embarrassment and bent to kiss the irritated spot. She gasped and her muscles relaxed. He lifted his head, then moved his hand from holding her down to slap her bottom where the flesh was still snowy white.

No longer confined, Christine shot up, the pillow tumbling to the ground, and turned to glare at him in offense. "What was that for?"

"For distracting me with your siren beauty and causing me to burn the meal I slaved over."

"_We_ slaved over," she corrected.

"I seem to remember your hands were elsewhere."

She giggled and crawled to him, craning forward to press her lips to his for a simple kiss.

"It was a lovely distraction. I enjoyed my first cooking lesson, my Phantom chef."

He wholeheartedly agreed.

"I'm still hungry though. Shall we try again?"

He sighed. "I don't think I am prepared to invest in a second lesson at the moment. Perhaps a plate of cheese and fruit will sustain?"

"Oh, yes." Her eyes sparkled with excitement. "And we shall have it in our secret place! The heated water will feel wonderful against my skin. Much like the champagne, only hot."

"Christine, I don't think…"

But she had already bounded off the bed.

"…that's a good idea," he finished to himself as she scampered for the main room.

He wondered how much longer the effects of the champagne would last. Shaking his head in weary amusement, Erik quickly went in pursuit of his naked, nymph-like bride.

.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Ending this one light. :) Enjoy it while it lasts (muahahaha)**

**For those waiting- more of Come to Me soon (probably next weekend - it's with my beta)- and I'm still working on The Claim. I've found the need to read all of The Quest and The Treasure (to refamiliarize myself with everything and make sure all my T's are crossed and I's are dotted, since there were so many subplots, which is why it's taking so darn long...but I'm trying to get a chapter of _something_ up every weekend or other weekend. And thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews! :))**


	44. You Will Have to Pay

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) Sorry for the at times purple-tinged prose. It's just in my nature to write like that, my style, and I wouldn't know how to change it but will try not to go too overboard. (Note to those waiting, I'm finishing the next chapter of The Claim this weekend and will be sending to my beta, so it should be up within the next 2 weeks, hopefully sooner than later, but we'll see.) And now…**

* * *

**Chapter XLIV**

**.**

_"Oh, God…"_

The soft words of misery reached Erik's consciousness, the slap of skin hitting stone bringing him instantly awake and finding only a warm sheet where Christine should be lying beside him. At the sound of retching, he hurtled from the bed.

He found his Angel crouched naked on the floor in her mad and fruitless dash for the privy chamber. The remnants of her overindulgent celebration had been rejected from her body in a puddle beneath her head, which she barely managed to keep above the bitter refuse as she supported herself on trembling hands. He threw himself down beside her, wrapping one arm beneath her breasts and holding her up so she wouldn't fall in the mess a short distance below her face. Stretching his arm to the wall for a nearby shallow urn, he barely managed to grab it in time and position it so that it was effective.

"Oh God, Erik - I'm going to die..." She vomited again, into the golden urn.

He kept his hold around her secure, sweeping her tangled ringlets from her face and holding them away from her mouth. "No, my Angel, you will not die."

Had he not remembered the end results of his one mad binge, he would be gravely concerned by her anguished words. But he recalled the sour, agonized feeling of his stomach slowly turning itself inside out…the relentless pain…the endless retching…

Her alcohol-induced exuberance had calmed once they arrived at the spring hours ago. No longer lively, she had barely nibbled at the platter of cheese and fruit she'd insisted on bringing. As they sat on the ledge inside the bubbling hot water, within scant minutes she had fallen fast asleep in his arms. He had wrapped her up in a towel and carried her to their bedchamber. She had barely stirred once he laid her in bed and covered her, doused the nearby candles then crawled in beside her, wrapping one arm around her to hold her to him.

Much as he held her now.

Her hand clutched his arm and she pitifully moaned. Her body trembled, whether from the icy stone or her ordeal, he had no idea but knew she shouldn't remain in this state. Sensing her current ordeal was over, he gathered her up in his arms, eliciting another despondent groan.

"Just let me die," she said miserably.

"That will never be an option." He understood she spoke only from her misery, rarely having been ill before, even in childhood, but her words still inflicted his pain. He carried her back to bed, ignoring her weak protests that she was a mess and didn't wish to dirty the sheets. Did she think several yards of satin were more important than her comfort?

"Hush," he sternly but softly admonished, using her own word she had used with him when he'd been unwell.

Erik slipped into his wrapper then cleaned her up with a cool, damp cloth and covered her to her chin. Closing her eyes, she curled up into a ball on her side. He could only go by former experience, but if Christine followed his pattern and the little he'd seen of other men's, she would wake to a thundering ache in her head.

He blamed himself for her present condition. Had he not earlier spotted the bearded stranger from Box 5, who had become an unwelcome and familiar face at the opera house, then decided during the intermission to shadow him, he would not have seen the stranger's covert signal to Buquet, overheard his words to meet after the opera, and followed. The sight of the stranger's female companion had been an unpleasant shock, and in disgust Erik had observed the bejeweled redhead. In following them after the final curtain call and seeing the two meet with Buquet and the tramp's cousin he had been suspicious. Unable to hear their conversation, Erik had drawn as close as he dared without being observed. A rowdy group from the chorus had come between them, their boisterous laughter drowning out what was said. He had followed the vile pair, again to the bordello, to see Buquet and Charles join them there, and Erik wondered if the location served a purpose as more than a house of ill repute. He could easily have found a darkened window or back door, slipped inside and stayed to the shadows to spy on the meeting, but had left Christine behind far too long and quickly returned to collect her and take her home. Apparently not soon enough.

Silently, he cleaned the mess on the ground then went to the opposite end of his lair, to the area he considered his workroom. He retrieved a small carved chest, sitting down at the table there.

Pulling from the box's confines vials of aromatic oils from the East to burn and to massage for pain, he also retrieved his daily dose of an exotic root he ground to powder for his tea. His monthly visits to the old Asian shopkeeper Erik did not assign to Antoinette Giry. Since he first learned years ago of the man who received supplies from a ship that made periodic visits to the Far East, Erik had been a regular customer, making specific orders for what he wished - spices, herbs, plant cuttings, and oils for medicinal purposes. He crossed the merchant's palm with enough francs to forestall unwanted questions, and the old man never seemed to mind opening his locked shop to receive his nightly visitor each month, knowing it would be well worth his while.

Erik drank his bitter tea, despising the taste but knowing the brew was necessary, and prepared a blend of oils to burn for an aroma that would help soothe her pain. He frowned when he could not find the pouch with the willow bark to steep for a remedial tea for Christine then remembered a notation from Pierre's book of recipes.

Once the fragrance of the oils permeated the bedchamber, he retrieved the book from a shelf, quickly finding what he needed. Both chef and smuggler, Pierre evidently also entertained frequent bouts with a bottle. A recipe for a tonic had been written in the margin of one page for relief after a night of inebriant indulging. Noting he had most necessary ingredients, he set about making the drink, adding a few of his own spices he used for his recurrent headaches. He poured it in a metal pitcher and kept it cold until she awakened, setting it on a rock shelf at the bank of the lake, the icy water rising to just above the handle.

He then dressed, noting Christine still lay fast asleep. Tenderly he watched her a moment before returning to the main room, first to clean the hardened mess of last night's ruined pudding off the stones, then to work on new complications involving his budding composition.

**X**

Christine woke, feeling as if the members of the entire corps de ballet had practiced their leaps onto her skull. And they hadn't stopped their dance of torture. Even her _eyeballs_ hurt. She groaned, holding her head in both hands, and squirmed on the pillow.

Soon she felt the bed give and cracked her eyelids open to see Erik sitting near, holding a goblet toward her.

"I want to die," she whimpered.

"Cease with such abysmal talk and drink this," he countered softly. "It will help."

He helped her sit up against him and she took the goblet. The smell was atrocious, the taste…

"Ugh. _That_ is what's abysmal." She pushed it away but he insisted.

"Drink. It will dull the edge of pain."

"It's awful," she moaned.

"You would prefer the pain?" She turned her head away, but he persisted. "Drink it, Christine…" He took hold of the goblet, his hand over hers, and brought it to her lips much as she did to him with the champagne. She was not willing as he had been, but he managed to get her to swallow a few sips.

"Better?"

"My head - yes," she admitted. "My stomach hates it."

"Do you feel nauseous again?"

"No, but it's so very awful!"

He grinned at her childish explanation. "Drink the rest. You'll thank me later."

She obediently took another sip and scrunched her nose. "What's in this? Kerosene?"

"Hardly." He hesitated. "Perhaps it would be best if you didn't know."

She looked into the foul green concoction. Perhaps it would…

What spices he had put in were hot, burning her tongue and throat, but also beginning to clear her head and the pain from it. The green tasted like puréed vegetable but she didn't wish to know which one, just the thought making her stomach begin to churn.

"What time is it?" she asked, hoping by changing the topic she could forget this morning's rude awakening.

"Near evening. You slept most of the day."

She gaped in shock. "But- _I've wasted so much time!_ I wanted to spend these two days of complete freedom entirely with you."

"You need sleep as well," he said in mild amusement.

"Yes, but I had no intention of sleeping as long as I did!" she mourned. Actually, she couldn't remember ever going to bed.

"The day is not yet over, Christine. Cease to think of it. To dwell on what cannot be changed can drive you to madness."

The low timbre of his words made her realize he spoke from experience of his tribulations and she gently cradled his scarred face. "I'm thankful for every minute I have with you." She shifted position and winced, bringing her hand to her forehead.

He tightened his arm around her and brought the goblet up. "Drink…"

"But I'm not entirely grateful _for this_." She rebelliously pointed out and felt the quiver of his chest from silent laughter.

"Nonetheless…"

"I know…drink." With a sigh she lifted the goblet to her lips.

"Do you remember last night?" Erik asked once she finished half of the foul mixture.

She thought back, now that it didn't hurt so much to think. "I don't remember much after the performance, and very little about coming home, but I do remember moments that were…perfect."

She flushed with warmth at the memory and he smiled.

"At least you recall what was significant."

"Yes - but only vaguely."

"Then perhaps we should revisit that moment tonight, when you're feeling better."

"Oh yes, please." She nodded, his quiet suggestion bringing her first smile. A composer and poet, every action and word he often spoke was sheer poetry, and last night had been no exception. She tingled with the memory…

"Do you remember that you invented a new method to drink champagne?"

She inhaled swiftly at his wry but light words. "That really happened?" She recalled an intense encounter with him on the small table in the kitchen area but assumed it all part of a dream.

"Perhaps some day we will revisit that memory as well."

She groaned and shook her head. "I never want to see another _drop_ of champagne."

He chuckled. "I don't wonder. After the third bottle…"

"Oh, God." She groaned, not remembering having drunk so much. "No more, Erik, please…"

"Drink the rest," he encouraged and she grimaced at what the goblet yet contained but did as instructed.

With his skilled fingers, he rubbed fragrant oil into her temples to help soothe her head. Another hour of relaxing and one solitary visit to the spring later and she felt, if not entirely improved, well on the road to recovery. Toweling her still damp hair, she entered the main room from the corridor to see Erik sitting at his organ, penning notes to paper.

"Are you ready to begin?"

She curbed a groan. "Perhaps, we could forego a lesson tonight?" she replied hopefully.

He lifted his eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest, unsmiling, the stern teacher once more.

"Bathing did not help you feel better?"

She sighed. "Somewhat. Yes. And that sweet, spicy fragrance you warmed over the candle's flame earlier was delightful. What was it?"

"Frankincense and Spikenard."

"Oh. Well, it was wonderful, as were your fingers against my scalp." She smiled at the memory, hoping he would be agreeable to her idea. She moved up the steps to join him. "On the topic of tranquility, I had hoped we could spend what was left of the evening continuing to relax, since I have so few days off…." Her hopeful words trailed away at the steady look in his eyes. Again the uneasy student, she dropped her gaze to the keys at the knowledge of what was coming.

"Do you not think you need the practice after last evening's barely tolerable performance?"

She winced at his deceptively casual words. Of course he had noticed her miserable little failures; she had expected nothing less.

"Tell me, my dear, why there was such tension in your voice that you could not relax to play your part well?"

"There has been a lot going on above…"

"Piangi has done nothing untoward?" He narrowed his eyes, which sparked like twin flames in sudden anger.

She blinked at him. Why should he immediately think of Piangi? "No more than usual."

"And what does that mean?"

Her face warmed. "He was a little…boisterous in his actions at rehearsal when I first returned, but I set him straight."

He looked at her a tense moment. "Would you like me to speak with him?"

Recalling his previous meeting with Jospeh Buquet, the empty bottle of absinthe and his insistence on being visited by a threatening specter in the dead of night, she reasoned that a visit from the Opera Ghost would resolve nothing and likely make matters worse. Especially if the lead tenor were to take any resulting complaints of such a visit to the managers.

"Senor Piangi is not the problem, Erik."

"Then what is the problem, Christine?" Already rigidly erect in posture, he impossibly drew himself up even more and frowned. "The Vicomte -"

"Isn't the problem either," she said with a sigh, longing for the day when Raoul would cease to be an issue between them. "It's…a number of things."

"If you do not speak of them, how do you expect me to seek a resolution?"

She reluctantly nodded - did not wish to think of it, certainly did not believe it, but could not eliminate Meg's words of the rooftop from her mind. In her heart she knew Erik did not murder the nobleman Dubois, but neither could she say _anything_. To do so would introduce the subject of Raoul and his suspicions, and she did not wish to start an argument. But other matters concerned her that she could share.

"There was a man, at the theater," she began uncertainly. "I thought when I first spotted him at the debut that he was an admirer. But after meeting him last week, I have begun to wonder…"

Erik instantly rose to his feet and approached, clasping her shoulders. "What did he do? Did he say anything, do anything? Did he threaten or harm you? He will rue his very existence…"

At the danger brewing in his stormy eyes, she laid a gentle hand against his chest.

"He didn't touch me. Meg was with me…But by his expression and the way he spoke, it felt like - like he thought he owned me. Meg said you get all kinds and she would see to it that Madame Giry barred him from coming backstage again. But I've also wondered if it was nothing more than my vivid imagination. Meg often tells me I dream far too much and exercise logic entirely too little."

She attempted to sound confident, but her words did nothing to ease the tension from his jaw.

"Tell me what this fiend looked like."

She shuddered, not wishing to remember. "He was my height. Stocky. With brown hair and a close-cropped beard and dark eyes that were…hard. Very hard."

Erik inhaled through his teeth, his eyes flickering with an emotion she couldn't name, and she sensed he knew exactly who she spoke of. He drew her close. "Do not fear, Mon Ange. I will never again let you out of my sight after a performance. Should he be so foolish to come close a second time, I will be watching."

She nodded against him, wrapping her arms around his waist and taking comfort from his words.

"Is there anything else that troubles you, Christine?"

She hesitated. "Little things, all of which can be managed."

"Such as?"

"It may sound foolish."

"Never to me."

She smiled softly at his words, remembering the echoes of their past. As a small child coming to her Angel for guidance, she sometimes held back, thinking her worry insignificant and not wishing to trouble such a powerful being. But he never considered any hesitant remark she made or childish fear unworthy of merit and always encouraged her to speak.

"I don't think my personal seamstress likes me."

He brushed his lips against her temple. "What makes you think that?"

She shrugged in his arms. "She seemed uncomfortable near me, as if she wished to be anywhere else."

"Then she is a fool." He pulled back to look at her. "Do you wish for another seamstress? Despite former problems with her tardiness to work, she is the best the opera house has to offer. But if she is causing you problems…"

"No - it's too soon to know if things will work out between us or not. I was likely over-sensitive."

"You must stop making excuses for everyone," he admonished.

"Perhaps…It's only that when I first returned to work I was overconfident and demanding - you sensed it. You told me to be careful that first day with the managers…" She shook her head. "And now, sometimes, I feel like withdrawing back into my shell." Her eyes sought his. "I know how to be Aminta, even Alyssa. I'm just not sure who I am in this new role as the opera house diva." She didn't want to fail him and was anxious she might.

He studied her pensively. "Perhaps you need a short respite, away from the theater."

She held her breath in disbelief, afraid to hope.

"What do you mean?" she whispered.

"I have considered," he said, his hands still at her waist. "Do you still wish to meet the child, Tina?"

Her eyes widened. "Erik! Do you mean it?"

He gave a solemn nod. "If you wish to go, I will take you tomorrow -"

He barely got the words out before she threw her arms around his neck, peppering his face with kisses. "_Thank you, thank you, thank you!_" Her lips found his for a short few seconds before she pulled away. "May we bring a lunch to picnic in the countryside? And afterward may we visit my father's grave? I went before my birthday, as you know, but I was upset, and I would like to go once more when I'm not, now that we're together, since he brought you to me…" Her words fell over each other in her excitement.

Erik held her back, pleased to see the return of her exuberance but wondering if perhaps he had spoken too hastily. Matters within Paris were still ambiguous and he had hoped that a quick visit of no more than an hour would suffice to put her in better spirits and take her mind off the difficulties involving the theater. From the manner in which she took off with his words, she was now planning an entire day in the city!

"We shall see," he replied carefully. "For now, we practice."

She sighed in resignation then smiled. "I know what I shall ask for my reward."

"You are so sure you will succeed?"

"Have I not done so every time?"

She had, but he had not minded since her choice of reward was always dually gratifying.

Following her scales and warm-ups, he introduced a new song but to Christine's surprise did not extend the lesson. After less than an hour, he put an end to the practice, stating that she needed the rest after her debilitating morning. Once he prepared them a meal and they had dined at the long table that sat near the lake, he moved to stand beside her chair. Before she came to live with him, Christine thought the table only another flat surface covered by a dust cloth for his many artistic miscellanies. She was surprised to wake up a few days after they were married to find he had uncovered a beautiful carved mahogany dining table that had been hidden beneath.

"Come, I wish to show you something," he told her now, and she wondered if another surprise lay in wait.

She wasn't disappointed.

He took her hand and led her past the bookcase to a far corner of the lair. She gaped to see a hearth in the wall, previously blocked by a stack of crates. A red loveseat she had never before seen sat in front and a lush rug of deep pile lay on the floor before it. She blinked at him in shock then again stared at the hearth.

"You've had this all along?" she asked in quiet disbelief.

"Yes. The flue has not been functional for some time. Now that you are here with me, I have worked this past week to change that. It will not heat up the entire lair, of course, but it will warm this small area and serve as a cozy retreat after we dine."

She shook her head in awe and he led her to the short couch, where she sank to the cushion and watched as he used a candle to set fire to the tinder within the hearth. Forever a man of mystery, would she ever uncover all there was to know about her husband? He caught the curious expression on her face as he moved to place another log on the weak flames.

"You have a question?"

"I only wonder, with your ability to produce fire with a wave of your hand, why you should go to all that trouble."

He wryly smiled. "Ah, to live a life so uncomplicated. Too much ease can grow dull." He glanced at her before using the poker to prod the log and catch it to flame. "I use magic only when I must, as it tends to be demanding - mentally exhausting. I'm not as young as I once was."

"You're not old, Erik. Thirty-two is not old."

He did not respond to that, only shrugged. "I prefer to do things with my hands too."

She grew quiet as he stoked the wood with a poker.

"How did you learn magic?"

Erik stared into the growing flames. He could never tell her where he learned to master what deceptions and arts he gleaned from his cage while watching the gypsies use their dark magic, later discovering greater facets of such power during his years in the Far East.

"Over the years I've picked up many things," he said vaguely as he joined her on the sofa.

"Will you teach me to make fire appear? That's what I want for my prize."

Her innocent words alarmed him. "No, Christine." There was a darkness that had needed to be embraced for the magic once learned, and she was his gentle Angel, of goodness and light. He would not sully such purity and make her like him. "It is not possible."

She frowned. "Is there _anything_ you could teach me of magic?"

He considered her request. "First you wish to purr, now you want to play with fire…"

Her eyes clouded in confusion. "Purr?"

"You do not remember that from last night?" He moved his lips along her neck to demonstrate.

She gasped then shivered, her hand lifting to his head to hold him there. "How could I have forgotten something so…?" She murmured in delight. "Yes, I want to learn that too...! But I would like to learn a little magic. It would be fun to fool Meg, like you used to fool the managers." She giggled in mischief. "Only on a much smaller scale, of course. Is there no simple trick you could show me, Mon Ange…?"

Her girlish curiosity could often be exasperating, even infuriating, but at the moment he found it endearing. He decided to teach her a harmless trick using sleight of hand.

They spent the remainder of the evening engaged in a lesson of how to make a coin disappear, afterward engaging in easy conversation in front of the low burning fire. He had given up such practices when rocks from the flue crumbled inside and blocked the smoke's escape, finding that in his life before Christine's presence, sitting before a fire like this one had only sharpened his loneliness and despair. With her nestled at his side, sharing the fire with his wife was a practice he would gladly make habitual, even if it meant he must often travel outdoors for wood. For the briefest moment Erik wondered what it would be like to live in an authentic house above ground with her…

They washed the dinner dishes together, and Christine insisted she would like to learn to cook for him. Clearly it had not been a trivial whimsy brought on by champagne.

"Perhaps tomorrow," he evaded, though certainly the charred food of last night's culinary fiasco would be no lesson repeated.

In their bedchamber he revisited with her the meaning of perfection, and judging from her eager responses and pleasured moans, it had been well worth revisiting.

"Mmm…" Minutes after their bodies calmed, she stretched like a cat and smiled. "Now I'm hungry."

He shook his head against the pillow. "Why am I not surprised?"

She moved to lean partly over him. "Can I help it if such perfection demands frequent nourishment?" She kissed the corner of his mouth and bounded out of bed like a beautiful nymph, still glowing from their lovemaking.

"_Christine!_ _Your wrapper!_"

"I'll only be a minute!"

"It takes less than that to throw it about your shoulders."

"Oh, alright." She grabbed it from the foot of the bed and hurried out, flinging her arms through the sleeves at the bottom of the first staircase and loosely tying it. She took the second set of stairs swiftly to the kitchen area, spotting what she wanted in a bowl there.

Grabbing her treat, she ran back to the warmed bedchamber and dove beneath the downy satin coverlet. She found it difficult to believe she so playfully evaded his capture while running naked through the chill cavern as he'd told her. At least her shyness for him to see her nude when they weren't making love had, for the most part, disappeared at some point during their second week together.

"Was that necessary?" he asked, pulling the coverlet away from her face. "I would have obtained something for you to eat. Your feet are like blocks of ice. You neglected putting on your slippers."

"Too cold?" She teased and ran the sole of one foot along his leg.

"You may warm your feet on me any time," he countered. "I am accustomed to the cold. But I do not wish for you to become ill."

"I'm fine, Mon Ange." With her body again adjusting to the warmth of her husband and the pleasantly heated room, she pushed herself to sit up beside him and smiled, taking a bite of her apple. Resting one hand against his chest, she offered him the juicy morsel with the other.

"Have some."

He looked at the rosy red offering in her hand and raised his eyebrow.

"This has a rather alarming connotation."

"What?" Her brow cleared as she followed his gaze to the fruit she held to him, then looked at his eyes again, to see they were taking her in from head to bended knee. "Oh! You mean Adam and Eve?" She crunched into her apple and giggled. "At least we're dressed for the part, and it _is_ as if we're in our own world. Perhaps not Eden with trees and flowers and birds, but a hidden paradise all its own." She chewed her bite and swallowed. "How do you think they spent their time, other than naming all the animals?"

"With a lovely nude wife in his presence night and day, I cannot begin to imagine."

"Erik!" She opened her eyes wider in shock, a smile then blooming on her face. "Do I tempt you?"

"Continually."

She thought that over and gave a decisive nod. "Good. Then, here in our secret home, I'll be Eve and you'll be my Adam and I'll tempt you unmercifully." She leaned close and again offered him the rosy fruit, holding it in her open palm, near her smiling lips.

He took the fruit, tossed it to the bed and grabbed her by the shoulders bringing her body flush against his. She gasped then mewed, snuggling closer.

"My tempting seductress, we will play your game but on one condition." His voice came gruff.

Christine lightly abraded her exposed nipple against the soft hair on his chest, her wrapper having gaped open in her mad dash into bed. Electrified by the sensation she began to wonder who was tempting whom. "Your condition, my lord seducer?"

He chuckled. "We conform to full costume throughout."

She blinked. "But they didn't wear anythi …" Heat flashed through her as she caught on.

His smile was the epitome of wickedness. "Exactly."

"I thought you wanted me always to wear my wrapper."

"Out of bed, yes." His fingertips lightly ran down the lapel of the breast still covered. "A wrapper is quite remarkable in its simplicity. No annoying crisscross of ties or knots or impossibly minuscule buttons to endure. One sash to tug free, and it's off." He proved his point in two swift moves.

How he could still make her blush she could not begin to imagine. "Perhaps, instead of Adam, you are the serpent come to torment me," she whispered, tilting her head to fully look at him with mock reproach. Which lasted as long as it took for his lips to brush, his tongue to lave, and his teeth to bite the sensitive cord on her neck that melted her into a submissive puddle of desire.

"It is a role more suited to a phantom, do you not agree?" He whispered against her skin.

"You don't know how delighted I am that you're no true angel." And cradling his jaw, she pressed her mouth to his, eager to experience his many temptations.

.

**xXx**

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**A/N: I know, I know - more fluff and fun and little conflict, but I feel E/C moments like this chapter and others are necessary throughout to help build/strengthen their relationship as they learn more about each other - especially to make their reactions to conflicts ahead more believable...but with the next chapter, things are going to start heating up in a different way. ;-) Get ready…**


	45. Journey to a Strange New World

**A/N: Yikes- I see I've lost reviewers, though I've gained some more readers, so not sure if this story is still of real interest or not. (I almost feel the need to apologize since this isn't the story chapter you wanted to see. lol Though both of the other stories _are_ still being worked on.) But I have this chapter ready, so will go ahead and post. Thanks to those who reviewed - *hugs* - it is much appreciated!**

**And now****…**

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**Chapter XLV**

**.**

They woke at the same time. Erik drew Christine willingly into his arms and they engaged in an intimate and unhurried welcome of the morning. Much later, holding him deep inside her, she cradled his face between her palms.

"Did you mean what you said?" she asked softly. "May we really visit the child today?"

He nodded. "When you are prepared to leave, we will go."

"Soon…not yet," she whispered, again pulling his lips down to hers.

As much as she anticipated an outing with Erik, Christine cherished these moments of togetherness in his warmth, wishing to extend the minutes. Sensing somehow that as long as she had yearned for this day when he finally began to move past his impenetrable boundaries of rock and water, that once they left this hidden fortress beneath the earth, things would never again be the same…a blessing, yes. She did not wish to think that it might be a curse as well, but could not help remember how he said he'd been mistreated as a boy.

An hour later, Erik clasped her hand that rested on the table by her plate, bringing her attention to him.

"Something troubles you, my love? Are you having second thoughts about our outing?"

Realizing that with her last bite of breakfast she had been staring endlessly at the flames of the candelabra in the center of the table, Christine shook off his almost hopeful words with a smile. She had no wish to give him reason to withdraw his invitation due to her foolish qualms. "Oh, no! I am eager to go outdoors with you. I'll get dressed." Though he had donned his day clothes Christine still wore her velvet robe and slippers. She loved being able to do so and not having to rush to dress the moment her eyes opened, as she had needed to do in her dormitory for ten years to make morning practice, amid a flurry of girls doing likewise. Here, time did not matter. Erik told her when it was time to go above and she preferred it that way. She took a last sip of her tea then moved toward him to kiss his cheek before hurrying to their bedchamber.

Once she returned, she was shocked to see that Erik had belted his sword that he'd worn to the Bal Masque around his waist. At the curious lift of her brows, he explained, "With the unrest in the city I prefer to leave here well armed. I have no working pistol, only one that was used for a prop but no ammunition. This, however, is no prop."

She noticed the coiled length of rope he also slipped into the hidden confines of his cloak and stared. He looked up, noting where her attention rested.

"Something troubles you, Christine?"

"No. Nothing," she said hastily, forcing a smile. She refused to let Meg's foolish talk and Raoul's incessant hunt for the wrong man tarnish this long awaited outing with her husband. "I'm ready to leave when you are."

Her smile grew genuine to see the hamper he collected, evidence of his consent to a private picnic, and she took his hand as he led her through a corridor that twisted and turned, one they'd never before used. It also contained traps he needed to disable before they could proceed. She wished he didn't feel the need to use them but understood his defensive measure. Any accidents a few men in the theater once encountered were due to their egotistical desires to capture the elusive O.G., and enacted against his warnings to stay away from areas he had forbidden. No one had been seriously injured or killed and Christine could not fault Erik for protecting his secret, even his life.

The passage opened out to the stables. He held her back when she would walk forward and she looked at him curiously.

"We must wait until he leaves."

She furrowed her brow. "But why?" She also kept her voice to a whisper as he did. "That could take hours!"

"I assure you it will not take so long," he countered wryly, knowing the stable master took frequent breaks with a bottle in the next room. "I cannot very well approach the man, Christine."

"I can."

"No."

"But - how else do you intend for him to drive us?"

"I will drive you."

She looked at him in surprise. "But I want you sitting _with me,_ inside the carriage."

"If I do, then he will need to drive the horses and will see me," he explained as if to a child, his patience wearing thin.

"Fine. Then if you drive, I will sit beside you."

"There is a light mist falling. You should not be exposed."

"What is the difference if I were to sit in the carriage?"

"I sent a note in advance, procuring you a closed carriage. _And_ stating you will have no need of a driver as you have your own."

She stomped her foot as she had done as a child, but thankfully the stableman didn't hear. "I want you _with_ _me, _Erik! If the carriage is closed, then no one will see you, if that is your wish."

"I have told you why it's not possible. The driver will see…"

"Oh, who cares," she whispered back in frustration.

"Do you not think that the mask might rouse his suspicion as to my identity?" He motioned to the white covering. The black leather she preferred had been too damp to wear from being left at the bottom of the boat where she had dropped it the previous night. "Remember, my dear, why we must keep this secret."

"If it troubles you that he might recognize you, then lower your hat and pull up your collar."

"Or, if you prefer, we can forget the entire thing."

She frowned, upset with the wretched circumstances, knowing he made a valid point but wanting to change their situation and enjoy the day like any other normal married couple. Yet everything about their relationship was unique and far from typical, from the moment a small child made a hidden Angel her friend, and she should stop trying to hope for some expected standard. Had she not always shunned the commonplace as dull? At least she now had a true life with her companion and idol of a decade, living beside him, no longer apart. Above all else, that was all she ever wanted.

"Oh, very well," she agreed. "You drive, I'll sit in the carriage - but there's no reason to wait."

Christine briskly walked forward before he realized it, appearing as if she'd come from the stairs. Erik clenched his jaw. If she was in such a damn hurry, he could have easily knocked the man unconscious, not that she would approve such a method…

"Monsieur," she greeted the white-haired stableman with a smile. "I have come to acquire the carriage you have for me."

He turned from filling a pail with feed. "Of course, mademoiselle. I have already hitched it to the horses. You wrote that you have no need of a driver…?"

"I acquired my own once I let the apartment," she said firmly as he escorted her outside to the waiting black conveyance. "Thank you, monsieur. I do not wish to keep you from your duties."

He lifted his brows at her clear dismissal but nodded. "As you wish, Miss Daae. Good day to you."

"And you." She watched him slowly amble back into the building before she turned to grasp the carriage door's latch. A black-leathered hand covered hers, and she looked over her shoulder in surprise, having not heard his approach.

"Never do that again." In the backdrop of a pearl gray sky his irises shimmered a lighter green than she'd ever seen them, flecked with yellow-gold. Within the fringe of his coal black lashes they seemed to glow. Their expression not stormy, but grim nonetheless.

Christine pivoted to face him. "Please, don't be angry, Mon Ange. It is only so upsetting that we must always hide, when I want the world to know how I feel about you and to see you with me."

He exhaled a soft breath, his stony expression going gentle. "How can I remain angry with you when you speak such priceless words that I once thought never to hear?" He lifted her hand to his lips barely brushing a kiss to the back before opening the door and helping her alight. Before he closed it, he reassured her. "It will not always be this way, Christine. One day, we will no longer need to hide who and what we are together."

She nodded, trying to understand. "Then I shall pray that day comes soon."

Once he shut the door, Christine moved closer to the window. She watched the buildings move past as the carriage made a slow trek down the brick road. Her eyes opened wider as she caught sight of a slight, cloaked figure. Swiftly she pounded her fist against the roof.

"Erik- stop!"

Uncertain if he could hear, the window fastened securely as a method only to view and not to open the pane, she pulled the latch and cracked the door, holding to the wall of the carriage for balance. "Erik!" she called, "Stop the horses. Please!"

He had no more than pulled the reins when she hurried out before she could lose sight of the woman who now quickly walked past a boutique.

"Marie! Wait!" Breathless, Christine rushed toward the petite brunette, who turned in surprise upon hearing her name. Words fled her mind at the sight of the swaddled bundle in Marie's arms.

"Your baby…" she whispered, smiling at the innocent, rosy face of the blue-eyed tot within the blanket. "He…" Her eyes lifted. "She…?"

"A boy," Marie smiled softly. "Michal."

Christine let the child's tiny fingers wrap around hers. The touch, the sight, pulled at chords deep inside Christine, making her strangely want to cry. "He's very beautiful."

"Merci…I have heard of your great success," Marie said, bringing Christine's attention away from the child. "I didn't know you could even sing that well, to take the lead."

"Few did. I have a great teacher. He has taught me for years, in secret." At the thought she glanced toward the carriage, noting Erik's head turned their way. His collar was pulled high, his shoulders hunched low, his fedora over his brow, so no one could see his face. She suddenly looked at Marie.

"How did you hear?"

"Madame Giry often visits my employer, Lady Bertrand. I am on an errand for her now. She has been very kind, allowing me to stay, with Michal."

Christine was now certain that Madame Giry had been responsible for securing Marie's new position. "You have been missed. The new dancers are awful."

Marie looked about nervously. "Yes, well, I - I should go. Please be careful there, Christine."

She looked at Marie in confusion, hoping to have at least gotten the somber young woman to giggle, but she seemed more tense than ever. "Why would you say that? Do you know something?" Christine put a hand to her arm in dread. "You've gone positively white! Do you need to sit down? Please, come sit inside my carriage until you collect yourself."

She put her arm around Marie's shoulders and accompanied her to the black coach. Christine caught Erik's eye before he looked straight ahead again.

She sensed he was not pleased.

Marie took a seat across from her, still visibly trembling. Christine tentatively held her hands out for the baby. "May I?"

Marie instinctively grabbed Michal closer to her shoulder a moment before giving a nod and handing him over. Christine was surprised by how light he felt in her arms, how sweet and soft…Her heart turned over and she focused her full attention on Marie.

The girl still looked stricken.

"What you said before," Christine said with quiet urgency. "Please tell me why you said it."

Marie gathered her skirt into a fist on her lap, clutching the folds. "What did Madame tell you about me? About my…situation."

"Nothing really. Only that you needed to leave the chorus, because, well, you know…" she trailed off when she noticed Marie's eyes intently fixed on hers.

"You must be careful, Christine. You were always kind to me, one of the few who were. I do not wish for you to come to harm. Which is why I feel I must speak, though I was told I shouldn't…"

Intrigued and more than a little troubled, Christine nodded for her to go on.

"That night," Marie began, "I was to go with Lizette to meet two of the male dancers for a rendezvous. Only she wasn't feeling well, so I went alone, to tell them. But they weren't there. I was late so assumed they had already left." She anxiously smoothed her palm on her skirt several times before clutching it again. "I heard a noise and followed, thinking to find them but never did, and then I was curious to see shadows moving on the wall far in the distance. I knew someone must be there and had lit a lamp. I kept walking down the corridor, the one Madame told us never to go near, in the old wing never used anymore. In the south part of the building."

Christine knew the area well from her disconcerting lessons with Erik there a week before they married.

"I…I overheard a man talking. In a room of them. He spoke treason against the crown. Then, of course, it was a big issue, but now…" She shook her head and lowered her voice to a whisper. "I - I didn't recognize most of them, only a scene shifter and a stagehand…I -I must have made a noise. A few men standing in back turned to look. I hurried away. I must have struck my head on something. I - I don't remember…I woke up and - and my dress was torn. Madame Giry found me wandering, near senseless, toward the dormitory. A few months later I learned of Michal."

Christine's eyes widened in horror. "You were attacked?"

Marie gave a nervous, shamed nod.

"Did you tell Madame?" Christine lowered her voice.

"She is the only one I told. She said it would be better if I never speak of what I saw or - or what happened."

Erik must have known. Madame would have told him. Why had she not told anyone else? And why had he not told her?

"Please, Christine, be careful. Never walk in the opera house alone at night." She heard in her cautionary words the echo of what Erik often told her these past months.

Christine nodded vaguely. "You don't yet look fit to walk. I will take you to your employer's. Only tell me where she lives so that I may tell my…my driver."

Marie thanked her and gave her the address.

Christine looked at the baby, who gurgled up at her with a winsome smile, finding it curious that something so sweet and angelic could come from so horrendous a crime. She stroked a soft finger along Michal's downy cheek before handing him back to his mother.

Marie took her son in her arms. Christine noted the young woman visibly relaxed, the tension draining from her. Whatever cruelty brought Michal into being, it was evident that a special bond existed between mother and child. One day, she hoped to experience such a connection with Erik's child. Her face flushed with shy but pleasurable warmth at the idea of giving Erik a son.

She stepped down from the coach and approached her husband. From his stern expression, she knew she was in trouble again.

"Marie isn't well. I told her we would take her home. I…" She hesitated. Now wasn't the time for questions. "…hope you don't mind?"

"What _I_ _mind_ is my wife demanding that I stop the carriage then charging recklessly across the street without so much as an explanation," he seethed in a quiet voice. "You could have been run down by that wagon, Christine!"

"I was careful." He glared at her and she realized she had been far from cautious. "I didn't want to lose sight of her…" Her gaze fell to the cobbles. "I apologize, Erik. I had no wish to alarm you."

"Every moment you are away from me is a matter for my concern."

She was unaccustomed to the city, having visited so rarely. On one hand she could count such excursions, ever since she'd come to live at the opera house from the remote seaside area where she once lived with her father, her yearly visits to the cemetery excluded. There had been no need to go anywhere. Workers at the opera were employed to purchase food and clothing. The only other reason people left their homes was to socialize and for entertainment - all self contained inside the theater. There, she would have run forward at seeing Marie without thought and had acted on that impulse. But this was not the opera house.

Chagrined, she looked up into his eyes. "I truly am sorry. I acted without thinking. Please don't let my mistake ruin our day together."

His rigid shoulders relaxed slightly. "Learn to use vigilance, my dear."

She nodded, now feeling that she better understood his fervent dedication in guarding her. _Lead carefully with your head, not impulsively with your heart_…how many times had Madame told her that?

"Return to the carriage, Christine. I will take your friend home. Then we will visit the child."

Smiling again, she gave him the address and joined Marie. Once the carriage took off, she filled the minutes with light talk, hoping to help the former dancer relax and answering questions with regard to the friends Marie had left behind at the opera house.

The carriage rolled to a stop before an expensive townhouse. "Thank you," Marie said. "I'm grateful we had this opportunity to speak, Christine. I wish we would have done so more often when I lived at the dormitory. My employer will be leaving the city this week, and I'm traveling with her to Switzerland as a companion. Likely I will not see you again."

"I'm also grateful we had this chance to talk. Please, take care of yourself and Michal."

"And you."

"Of course. I will not soon forget what you told me."

x

Long after Marie and Christine made their farewells, Christine stared out the window, deep in the memory of their conversation. She was pleased that Marie had found some happiness, but distressed by all she had learned. Especially of her attack…Christine had wanted to pretend the possibility of a socialist revolution didn't exist. To learn such meetings had taken place inside her own personal world of the opera, inside her _home_, brought it shattering hard through her crystalline bubble of make believe. All of what Erik warned was true. But what did it mean for their future? What happened to Marie was more than a year in the past. Did such dangers still exist?

The area Erik drove through grew shabbier. The buildings leaned and stood close together, the windows broken in some, laundry hanging from ropes above. Here, the Parisians who came within Christine's sight looked like recent victims of the siege and starvation. A few beggars sat hunched over, against the walls.

The carriage rolled to a stop and Erik opened the door, helping her out. "Stay close to me."

He needn't have spoken. A man in a patched coat stood across the street, boldly staring at her. A group of scarecrow-thin boys stopped kicking what looked like a battered can among themselves, and a mother who looked barely more than a child stared listlessly from an opposite doorway, ignoring her crying tot who pulled at her skirts. The entire scene spoke of poverty, desolation and pain. If she didn't have her Angel with her, Christine would be anxious to visit such a wretched place, but she felt confident of his ability to protect her, as always. He drew his arm around her, leading her to a crooked stoop and rapped on the weathered door.

There was no answer.

"Apparently no one is home."

Christine frowned when Erik made as if to go. She had worked hard to persuade him to agree and had not come this far just to turn around and leave. She knocked this time, more loudly than before, gaining the same result. Before he could stop her, she put her hand to the latch. The door gave way.

_"Christine - what are you doing?"_

"Maybe they didn't hear," she explained before calling out. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

Again, they were given no reply.

Having rarely been one to refrain from where curiosity led her at the opera house and acting with the confidence gained of having her Angel beside her, she pushed the door wider. "Is anyone home?"

Erik grabbed her arm just as Christine stepped across the threshold.

"The last thing I wish is to draw attention to myself which _will_ happen if the inhabitants of this hovel scream, thinking we mean them harm," he said tersely beneath his breath.

He had no more than spoken when a child's soft groan reached her ears.

"Something's wrong," she insisted, "I can feel it."

Christine pulled from his grasp and moved toward the sound, Erik close behind.

Near the hearth, a little girl sat in a chair, sound asleep at a small table. Her head was crossed on her arms that rested on what she'd been drawing, a piece of charcoal still held loosely in her hand. The fire had long burned out and the room was cold. As they drew near, the girl stirred and sleepily lifted her head of bright red locks. "Maman?" she whispered. She blinked her eyes open to see Christine, rubbed them, then looked behind her. Eyes of cornflower blue widened in a face sprinkled with light brown freckles, her jaw smeared with charcoal from resting on the picture.

"I know you," she said without fear, her attention on Erik. "You're the Opera House Angel."

Christine sensed that Erik was ill at ease, but he gave no reply.

"Are you here alone?" Christine kindly asked the child.

"My grandmaman is here. She's resting but will be in soon to make supper."

"Supper? But - it's morning."

The girl looked confused then stared down at her drawing. "She must have forgotten me again."

_Again_? Christine frowned. "Have you been sitting here all night?"

The girl shrugged. "She sometimes forgets me when she's sick and needs her medicine. It makes her feel better but then she forgets." The child looked toward the three empty wine bottles that lay near the wall.

The more Christine heard, the more she understood, and the angrier she felt. It was one thing to celebrate occasionally as she had done last night, though she had no desire to revisit that experience for some time to come - and never again to revisit the consequences. But to make such a lifestyle a habit was unconscionable, especially if one neglected a child. Christine had known the pain of loneliness, but she had never been subjected to negligence. Her father, then her guardians - both her Angel and Madame Giry - never failed to tend to her needs. The child's dress was dirty, her hair clumped with grime.

"Where is your mother?"

"She lives at the opera house so she can get the costumes made in time. That's what grandmaman says."

"Oh…" Christine thought that the saddest remark she had heard of late, though the child seemed to dismiss it as normal. "What's your name?"

"Tina."

"And how old are you, Tina?"

"I turned seven last month."

Christine was surprised. The girl was so tiny, she appeared no more than five.

Tina smiled and looked down at the brown parcel paper in front of her. "I like to draw."

Christine glanced at her sketch of an angel in the snow. "It's very pretty."

"I'm hungry," the girl whispered after a moment.

"Would you like me to find something for you to eat?"

"Yes, please."

A quick survey of the cupboards turned up one unopened bottle of wine, a crust of bread dried so hard it resembled porous brick, and cheese with green mold. Christine wrinkled her nose and approached Erik.

"There's not a thing fit to eat in this place, and I wouldn't be surprised if Tina hasn't had food since breakfast yesterday, if then." She laid her hand on his arm. "Would you mind terribly if we gave her part of the picnic you prepared for us?"

He studied her eyes, his expression inscrutable, looked at the small girl, then nodded. "I will retrieve it from the carriage."

"Perhaps I should find and speak to the grandmother, if she's even lucid." Christine frowned in disgust.

He grabbed her arm. "You will do no such thing. You have no idea what you may be walking into. It could be a trap."

A _trap?_ She stared at the closed wooden door, leading to another room. "But -"

"I will investigate." His expression was firm. "You stay with the child."

Christine took a seat beside Tina as Erik opened the door and slipped through it. She heard no woman's scream for help and began to relax. Something the child earlier said came to mind and heightened her curiosity.

"You called my…" Oh, how she wished to say husband! "…escort the Opera House Angel. Why?"

"He helped me."

"Helped you?"

Tina nodded. "Maman calls him the Opera Ghost and the Phantom when she talks to Grandmaman, and they have said mean things about him. They never think I hear them talk when I'm sitting here drawing. But I did, and I prayed that God would send him an Angel so he wouldn't be lonely anymore or do bad things." She smiled.

Christine tried to follow the child's logic, amazed at the depth of her perception. "But why do you call _him_ an Angel, Tina?"

"Maman said Madame Giry gave her a better position with more pay. She has to live there but she visits me once a week now. Maman said Madame Giry doesn't do anything without the Ghost telling her to…"

Learning of Erik's secret endeavors surprised Christine though it shouldn't after hearing his story of Christmas Eve with the spirits and knowing he visited this pitiful dwelling. Despite his lifetime of pain and bitter withdrawal from society, he had shown her, since she met him, that beneath the Opera Ghost's cool exterior beat a warm and giving heart…

Christine gaped in sudden realization. A better position…a seamstress…one who lived at the opera house and had a child she'd left behind…

"Tina, is your mother's name Dulscia?"

"That's what Grandmaman calls her."

Christine smiled. So her personal seamstress was the same woman Erik had seen and heard in the shadows of Christmas Present and Future.

"A doctor came to visit me after the Yuletide," the child went on, "but Maman didn't send for him because we had no money. He said there's an operation that might make me walk again."

Erik. The knowledge of what he'd secretly done for this tiny girl made Christine want to find him and hug him. But Tina's needs became apparent and took precedence at the moment. In the intrigue of their arrival, somehow Christine had temporarily forgotten the child's condition. The poor dear!

"Have you been sitting in this chair all night?"

The child shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with having to answer. "Grandmaman doesn't mean to forget me."

Christine clenched her jaw. There were a number of things she would like to say to the absent grandmother!

"Christine…"

At Erik's low address, she turned. He stood near the door and beckoned to her.

"Why don't you finish your picture and I'll see about getting you something to eat," Christine promised.

The child squirmed. "If you could please give me my crutch by the hearth, I need to visit the necessary," she whispered.

"Oh! Of course." Christine hurried to collect the crude support of wooden strips nailed together and gave it to Tina before joining Erik. At his serious expression, her heart skipped a beat in dread.

"Erik - what is it?"

He took hold of her arm and drew her close so they wouldn't be overheard. His eyes briefly went to the child who hobbled to an opposite corner of the room, disappearing behind a curtain that sectioned off an area there, before he looked at Christine.

"The woman is dead."

.

**xXx**


	46. What Horrors Wait

**A/N: Thank you for your wonderful reviews and your unwavering patience! :) My apologies for the delay- life has not been kind. But at last I'm able to write again. I hope you dear readers are still with me.  
**

**And now…**

* * *

**Chapter XLVI**

**.**

Christine stared at her husband, shock clouding logic and confusing his words.

"Dead?" Her eyes went to the curtain beyond which Tina had disappeared. "But…how?"

"I would assume the old hag passed on in her drunken slumber."

"You are certain?" She anxiously clutched his arm. "Perhaps she's only inebriated and unable to stir, much as I was last night -"

"I have seen dead men, Christine," Erik interrupted curtly. "She is stone cold and gray, her body lifeless. Rigor mortis has set in. From the stiffness of her limbs, I would deduce that she has been dead the entire night."

Christine clutched her throat, his straightforward accounting making her queasy.

"The poor child…" she managed to say.

At her sympathetic tone, Erik's eyes flicked from the curtain, where Christine's attention had again strayed, and focused intently on her face. "We must leave this place at once." He abruptly took hold of her arm and moved to go, but she held back.

"We cannot just leave the girl to fend for herself! She's but seven years of age and practically helpless."

"We will instruct a neighbor to tend the child."

"But Erik, how can we just go and leave her like this …" Her quiet words lapsed into uncertainty. "Should we not wait and break the news to her?"

He gave no quarter, practically pulling her along with him through the door. Christine threw a helpless glance toward the moth-eaten curtain, where Tina had enclosed herself.

Outside the frail young woman they had earlier glimpsed whisked a broom over the stoop in the same spot, scattering the remnant of snow there, the tot still clinging to her skirts. Before they could cross the street to speak with her, she grabbed her child by the arm and scurried into the building, slamming the door shut.

Erik abruptly halted in the muddy road, his hand protectively clutched around Christine's arm. He compressed his mouth in a thin, angry line, his gaze going in the opposite direction toward two men hunched against the frigid air and standing beside another building. Seeing Erik look their way they hastily averted their attention from him and began to hobble down the narrow road, wide enough for only one wagon.

Erik glared at their cowardly retreat. The weather had taken a decisive turn within the hour, the cruel Crone of Winter hanging to the earth with frozen claws, adverse to giving way to the gentle Maiden of Spring. The calm mist of earlier had taken on the chill of the air, the spray of water turning to minuscule particles of snow. Their breath came out in puffs of pale white vapor.

"We cannot just leave her there," Christine insisted beside him. "She needs someone to take care of her. She's _crippled_, Erik. The poor child couldn't even leave her chair throughout the entire night!"

In his frustration that they clearly would receive no help from those within the vicinity of this wretched district, he turned on his maddeningly benevolent bride. "_And what would you have me do, Christine?_"

"We must take her back with us to the opera house."

He stared at her in disbelief then let out a tense huff of laughter.

"Absolutely not."

"Why? _Why_ not?" she insisted when he gave no answer. "We have a carriage in which she may ride in comfort. There's plenty of room for us both to sit-"

"Children do not belong at the opera house," he said through gritted teeth.

"I was a child and grew up there. As did Meg."

"A rare exception to the traditional convention." He waved an impatient hand. "You both lived in the dormitories and were trained for the ballet. The same cannot be said for this child."

"She's petite and quiet. It's highly doubtful she would get in anyone's way. In all likelihood no one will pay much attention to her at all-"

"_**No, Christine!"**_

She wrenched her arm from his hold. "A child belongs with her mother, Erik! She should _**never**_ have been separated from her in the first place. It was wrong to do so and expect an old woman to tend to her needs day after day - not that she did much of that!"

At her angry outburst, he looked at her in shocked annoyance. "I had no part in making those rules!"

"But you do have the power to _change _them."

He narrowed his eyes. "What are you suggesting, my dear? You wish the Opera Ghost to execute a comeback, when you were so adamantly against his magician's tricks last week?"

"You don't have to adopt your old guise to speak with the managers and make a request known. You have breached the impasse you once erected, and have at last spoken to them face to face."

"_Why, Christine?_" He grasped her tightly by the shoulders. "Why is it so damnably important to you? These wretches are none of your concern."

"But _you_ have made them my concern, Mon Ange. You involved me, when you first told me about them and your encounter from the night that the Spirit of the Present brought you here. And now you've made Tina's mother my personal seamstress. I feel responsible for what happens to them."

He let out a weak laugh, wishing he could turn back time and withdraw his decision to come to this godforsaken place. "Hardly that."

"Exactly that." She remained fixed, her words flowing soft and persuasive. "You took it upon yourself to help that family, Mon Ange. You not only gave the woman back her post at the opera house, but you secured a better position for her. Also acquiring a physician for her daughter…"

His eyes flared a little in surprise that she had uncovered so many of his secrets and she gave a slight nod.

"Yes, I know about that too." She lifted her palm to cradle his jaw. "I'm your wife now, Erik, and I wish to do what I can for them as well. In a sense, that child helped to save you from a terrible fate and brought you to me by interceding for you and being one of those souls in the shadows to open your eyes to so many things on that ghostly night. I am forever grateful for that. Now, in her time of need, I feel I owe her the same. To take her to the one who loves her most. In this case, her mother." She lifted her chin a notch, sliding her hand down his neck lightly, to clasp the top of his shoulder. "In this matter I will not budge, Erik. I will not leave this horrid place until you agree. I cannot- _will not_- leave that child in a state of such sad neglect."

Erik stared at his young wife in helpless frustration. From the moment she began her quiet discourse, he knew his argument was lost. This slip of a woman that he'd spent over half of his lifetime guarding had the titanic power to render him defenseless with her gentle words stemming from a pure heart absent of all malice. She had always possessed that ability, to a degree, which matured since they'd become one…

God help him if she should ever find out her hold over him. It was the mantra that lately rang through his mind.

The gray skies were the color and luster of a pearl. They reflected off her dark eyes, causing them to sparkle with determined light like star sapphires, while their expression remained slightly uncertain to make such a bold provision to him. Her face glowed with rosy confidence, the picture she presented one of innocent courage. It was no wonder that angels had conquered demons, his own angel besting him with sweet words and a soothing touch…

Yes, it was true. He _had_ helped the child. From _a_ _distance_, how he preferred it. He had never planned to bring the girl into his world! But he could see how much this meant to his bride…Perhaps the crippled child had some skill the managers could exploit to their benefit, some means to aid her mother at certain tasks. It was the only way, barring threats, that he could imagine the pompous fools would agree to such an unusual arrangement.

Wryly Erik gave a resigned shake of his head, smoothing his palms down Christine's arms to her elbows before releasing her. "Go then, if you feel you must. Prepare the child to leave this wretched place. I will deal with other matters."

"Other matters?" Her lips curved in gratitude even while she questioned. "Will you…" her words came a trifle stilted, "see to the burial then?"

"No, it is imperative we leave here at once."

"You don't mean to just leave the woman lying there?"

"Christine." He raised his voice in authority. "I will do what _must_ be done. First and foremost, I will attend to your safety and my anonymity. Those are vital, above all else. I want no foul rumor started that the Opera Ghost was last seen in the vicinity where some miserable wretch mysteriously died in the night."

She nodded abruptly, averting her gaze to the muddy road and making him wonder.

"What shall I tell Tina?"

Erik considered the matter. The crippled girl seemed a quiet child both today and the one night he observed her in the shadows of the present. But her reaction to receive news of her grandmother's death might work against his plan to leave this district quietly, if she should go into hysterics.

"Tell her only that we are taking her to her mother."

"Yes, of course. You're right." Christine's attention remained on the small hovel where the child was. "Her mother should be the one to break such difficult news. Not a complete stranger."

He watched until she disappeared through the door, again wondering about her uneasy behavior, and decided it must have to do with the task she'd taken upon herself. Accustomed to death, the situation did not disturb him, other than being an unforeseen hindrance to mar his plans for their morning excursion. But his innocent angel had experienced little to do with the unsavory issue of the sudden end to mortality, save for the childhood memory of her father's demise.

He turned his attention to the distant gang of boys who had ceased in their game and stood talking with each other, all of them staring curiously in his direction. One shorter boy with stringy brown hair stood a short distance apart from the group. Recognizing him, Erik used ventriloquism to whisper in his ear the command to come forward.

He chuckled dryly at how wide the boy's eyes went in his thin face. If he listened carefully he might hear his teeth chatter and his knees knock together as the nervous lad approached.

"Marcel - get back here!" The tallest boy in the group called out for him to stop. "What do you think you're doing, fool?"

The scarecrow of a boy looked over his shoulder then back at Erik. He continued his course and came to a stop before him, at once catching sight of the porcelain half mask beneath the fedora Erik had pulled low over his brow.

"Monsieur Phantom!" he exclaimed in deferential wonder.

"Silence," Erik instructed quietly, noting the boy now fit the moniker, having achieved the pallor of a ghost. Erik glanced beyond him to the older boys who stood stock still and never once looked away. "Did I not tell you I could track you down where you live?"

The boy gave no response, and Erik went on, assured he had made his point. "You still wish to work for me in return for a meal?"

Hunger chased away fear as Marcel gave a hopeful nod.

"Very well. Once I leave you are to fetch the coroner."

"The corner?" The boy tilted his head.

Erik let out an impatient breath. "The man who retrieves and buries the dead."

The boy looked suddenly as if he had become one of those unfortunate souls of the damned.

"D-dead?"

"Yes. _Dead_. The old woman who lives in the hovel from which I exited died in the night. You are to tell him to come and collect the body - but you _must_ _tell no one_ of my visit here today."

Marcel's eyes again went wide. "Did you kill her, monsieur?" he whispered, a trace of both awe and fear in his tone.

"I had no opportunity. She died before my arrival…"

He kept the threat suggestive in his tone that he actually had come for such a purpose. In his illustrious tenure as the Opera Ghost he had quickly learned that to earn esteem and obeisance he must first instill fear.

When the boy did not respond, only stared, Erik insisted, "Do you know where this keeper of the dead lives?"

Marcel barely nodded.

"Excellent." Erik fished a gold coin from his pocket, flicking it in the air the scant distance between them. The urchin caught it in grimy hands, his mouth dropping open to see its value. A smile displayed his crooked front tooth and lit up his entire face.

"That should buy you more than a few loaves of bread and meat for your table. Speak of this visit to no one. Do not share word of this task I have given you with your friends. Do you understand?"

"They're not my friends. It's only my brother, Alexander, and his gang. I can do what you ask, Monsieur Phantom."

Christine appeared in the entryway, carrying the bundled child in her arms. Tina was slight of form and Christine strong from her career as a dancer, but the sight of her bearing any type of burden infuriated Erik.

"Then go," he told the boy, never taking his eyes off Christine. "Do as I have said."

The boy ran down the road in the opposite direction of his brother's gang of young hooligans, and Erik moved toward Christine.

"Come," he said, taking the child from her. "We must leave at once."

"One moment." Christine ducked into the hovel, quickly emerging with the girl's crutch, and shut the door behind her.

He moved to the carriage, while she hurried ahead to open the door. The child shyly smiled up at him, her eyes alight with happiness. "You are really taking me to see my maman, Monsieur?"

"Yes," Erik snapped and placed her on the seat.

"Merci," she said as Erik pulled his arms from around her petite form. "You truly _are_ my angel, like I told Mademoiselle Christine."

Erik straightened in curious shock to hear such words. To be thought of as someone else's angel other than Christine's unsettled him and had since the day he'd glimpsed the drawing on Antoinette's desk. He helped his wife into the carriage, giving her his hand. Her lips tilted in a smug little smile.

"I told you she's an intelligent child," she stated quietly before taking her own seat.

Frowning, Erik said nothing, only closed the door and hurried to the driver's seat.

.

xXx

.

Breathless from the morning rehearsal, Meg sat down in a flurry of ill-kept frustration to retie the slipping ribbon of her shoe.

The day had started glum without Christine's presence and aggravating with Maman's terse directives. Honestly! By the cold manner in which her mother spoke, one would have thought Meg habitually invited men's company while she bathed. And certainly everyone at the opera house imbibed in spirits now and then, some quite frequently. Meg failed to understand the issue.

A flush of warmth heated her face with the memory of last evening at the same time a shadow fell across her line of vision.

Annoyed, she snapped her head up to tell the intruder to go. The warmth turned into an uncomfortable fire that singed her face, spreading to the tips of her ears.

"Monsieur…" She barely could utter the word, unsure who looked more uncomfortable at the moment. Her, in her awkward slouched position, or the Vicomte who was given an uninterrupted view beneath the gaping blouson that framed her décolletage. By the manner in which his eyes flitted over her scanty costume before hastily averting his gaze to the curtain behind her, Meg assumed he also recalled the previous night.

Quickly she sat up. What exactly did one say to a man who had seen every blushing inch of her skin!

"I came to inquire … no, that's not it." He cleared his throat, inhaled a lengthy breath, released it then steadily met her eyes. At his sudden bright blue focus trained on her, she caught her own breath and looked back down at her slipper, swiftly retying it.

"Maman could be lingering around the corner. I must get back to practice."

"Of course. I have no wish to detain you. I never had a chance to speak with you after …" He hesitated in unease and fidgeted with the cuff of his coat sleeve. The action drew her attention to his waistcoat, his movements revealing a glimpse of the weapons strapped at his hip. "…That is, I wish to offer my apologies for my conduct last night. I should have behaved more honorably than I did … Meg?"

Her attention snapped up from the alarming sight. "You carry a pistol, Monsieur? And a sword?"

His manner became grave. "It is always wise to be prepared."

"Prepared, monsieur? You feel there is a need?" With her ribbon tied, she stood to face him. "Not for matters within the opera house, surely."

"It is a dangerous time we live in, Meg. One must always be prepared."

Realization dawned on her. "You speak of the possible revolution," she whispered.

He curtly nodded. "I feel it is imminent. And I advise you to be cautious."

She drew her brows together. "I'm just a common dancer. No one would have interest in me. It is you who should be careful, monsieur."

"You are anything but common, Meg." His words came softly and she felt the warmth heat her face again, singeing her blood. "But your concern, while appreciated, is unnecessary. I am taking precautions."

For the first time she noted his clothing, which looked plain, like something a stagehand might wear to an important event, the expensive silks and brocades absent. Yet he bore chiseled features in a face that was not easy to forget, and had the upright bearing of an aristocrat, something in no way hidden by a change of attire.

She experienced a sudden nervousness to see him go. "I imagine you'll leave the city as some of the gentry have done?" As much as she wished it, she knew it was risky for him to stay in Paris.

For the second time that day he surprised her. "This is my home. No Marxist will drive me from it."

Alarmed by his words, she put a hand to his arm without thought. At contact of the scratchy cloth hiding firm muscle a sudden awareness tingled through her fingertips and she quickly dropped her hand back down to her side.

"There is something I must tell you, monsieur …"

"Meg!"

She almost groaned aloud to hear her mother call. Though she was not within view, Maman could appear at any moment.

"I must go. She would not be happy to see me with you."

He frowned. "Because of last night?"

Feeling the now familiar tint of rose wash her face she gave a suggestion of a nod and dropped her eyes to his vest.

"I was the one at fault, Meg, not you."

"No." The subject gave her discomfort, but she couldn't avoid it forever. "No one's to blame … it's just one of those odd bits of bizarre happenstance."

"Would you like me to speak with her?"

"_Heavens no!_"

He blinked in curious surprise at her emphatic reply and she forced herself to calm, the memory of last night still too raw.

After a frigid request that Raoul leave the dressing room, her mother had practically hauled Meg out of the bathtub upon his exit, thrown some toweling at her, then scolded her for what seemed hours. At Maman's insistent shaking, Meg had awakened before dawn to a throbbing headache, which her mother did not take pity on, instead ordering that Meg also take part in the additional early practice designed for the dancers who fumbled rehearsals or even, God forbid, performances. Meg had done neither.

"It is best if she doesn't see us together. Not at this time. Please…" she added when it didn't seem as if he would go.

"Very well. If that is what you wish. I will find time to speak with you later."

"Yes, alright."

"Meg!"

With an uneasy nod of farewell, she hurried toward the sound of her mother's voice coming closer and again impatiently calling out her name.

.

xXx

.

Once at the opera house, the carriage stopped a short distance from the stables. Soon the door opened. Erik glanced from Christine to the child then back again. His eyes were not stormy, but he did not look pleased.

"Stay here. I will return shortly."

At his terse directive, she nodded but he had already disappeared.

"Are we at the opera house?" Tina asked.

"Yes, this is the back part of it." Christine plucked the apple core from Tina's hand, uncertain what to do with it, finally opening the door to toss it out. In the time it took to reach the opera house, the starved child had eaten half a loaf of bread, a golden apple, and a slab of cheese along with a roasted leg of goose. Now that the soldiers had departed from the gates of the starving city, as Christine recently learned, food was no longer a forgotten commodity, though Erik never had gone without and always secured the best. She wondered if he had smuggled from the smugglers…

Tina gazed out the window at the towering edifice. "It's so big!"

"I should think it covers an entire city block," Christine mused aloud.

Tina looked at her. "You live here?"

"Since I was your age."

She wondered if Erik was still angry at her for her part in today's altered plans. Her gaze dropped to the back of Tina's head of frizzed copper hair. He could hardly hold her accountable when her sole offense was to care. Someone competent needed to look after the child.

Within a short time her dark and brooding husband returned. "We must hurry," he said, "but first, you will need to tie this over the child's eyes."

Tina gaped at the narrow length of black silk Erik extended toward Christine.

"Really, mon Ange, is this necessary?"

"Quickly, Christine." His manner was grim, his stance unyielding. "There is no time to argue. You will do as I say."

She frowned at him then turned her attention to the girl. "It will be alright," she gently assured. "Angels are often secretive about things." Erik snorted at that, but Christine ignored him. "You shall see your maman soon. I promise."

Tina nodded faintly and Christine tied the scarf around her head. Erik lifted the blindfolded child into his arms, and Christine grabbed the crutch and quickly stepped down to follow.

He led the way into the empty stable and through the secret passage into the corridor they had earlier taken. With only the occasional torch lighting the wall, the path remained dimly lit. Christine stayed as close to her husband as she dared without treading on his heels. She wasn't yet familiar with this concealed path as she was with the passages from the mirror and cloakroom, but at least no traps lined these inner walls of the opera.

They took the passage she remembered from their wedding and soon came to the mirror door. She blinked in surprise to see Meg through the hazy glass, hanging discarded clothing. Christine glanced toward Erik for permission. He hesitated then gave a sharp nod.

She wasted no time in unfastening the latch and moving the mirror aside.

"Meg!" she said in an excited stage whisper.

Meg whirled around, gasping at the unexpected sight of Christine, with her Phantom stepping into the room behind and carrying a blindfolded child in his arms. She blinked a few times, then looked nervously over her shoulder at the closed door behind.

"It's not safe for you here, monsieur. The door is broken and will no longer lock. Anyone could walk in. The seamstress is due back at any moment -"

As if on cue, the door swung inward. Erik took a hasty step back with his arms full of the child and lifted his hand to magically force the mirror to close, but the intruder had already spotted him.

"Merciful heavens -Tina! Is that you?"

"Maman?" the child cried eagerly, extending her arms in the direction of the voice.

"Damn it to hell," Erik muttered fiercely, and Christine put a gentle hand to his tense arm, understanding his irritation. This was not the best way to go about delivering the child to her mother. Worse, Dulscia had seen into the passage! But they must move forward and make the best of their lot now. Hiding was no longer an option.

"It will be all right." She assured her husband then looked at Meg. "Quickly - the chair by the table. Jam it beneath the knob before anyone else can enter." Meg nodded and hurried to secure the door. Christine's gaze went to Dulscia who stared in confused horror at Erik.

"What have you done to my daughter?" The woman took several hasty steps toward them then abruptly stopped, as if nervous to come too close to the menacing man in the ivory mask.

At her fearful demand that sounded like an accusation, Erik drew himself up and glared at her. "I have saved her from a fate worse than your mother's. You have Christine to thank for that. I would gladly have left the child in your pathetic hovel to manage on her own."

"Erik," Christine warned softly. His rising ire sharpened his lack of social amenities and she feared he might blurt the news.

With grim resolve, she looked at the woman.

"I asked that Tina be brought here, to stay with you. I trust that we can rely on your discretion with _all_ of what you have witnessed here today." Christine sensed Erik turn his head to look at her, but she kept her steady eyes on her seamstress.

The woman looked troubled as she glanced back and forth between them. "What of my mother?"

"She's no longer able to care for the child," Christine answered carefully before Erik could wound with the truth. "I'll explain later. For now, Tina needs care and a place to sleep."

"What will the managers say?" Meg wondered aloud, curiously staring at the child.

"You must keep her from their discovery, Meg. Perhaps find her a place in an alcove or some nook or cranny to make her a bed."

"This isn't exactly like hiding a stray kitten," Meg argued, reminding Christine of the three weeks before they were caught when she and Meg as young ballet rats had attempted to do just that.

"I'll leave you to work out the details until Erik can speak with the managers."

"Wonderful," Meg muttered, sounding less than enthused. "Just another reason to have Maman's wrath rain down upon my head."

"Did something happen while I've been away?" Christine asked in concern.

Meg blushed. "Nothing that can't wait. I'll tell you upon your return to the theater tomorrow."

"Maman?" Tina asked. "Why are you angry? Did I not tell you the Opera Ghost is an angel?"

The woman winced, her expression uneasy. "No one's angry, Tina." Slowly she moved toward her daughter. "Why did you bind her eyes?"

"A precaution." Erik's voice came like liquid silk, calm, low and smooth. Only Christine sensed the brittle fire beneath that could ignite and scorch the victim to ash with his cold impatience and scalding words. Though beautiful, his voice could be a weapon, and only with his recent confession had she learned to what extent. He held the woman's eyes another tense moment then moved toward the chaise longue and carefully laid the girl on the cushion.

Once he stepped back in retreat, the woman wasted no time hurrying forward to her daughter's side and removing the black scarf. Erik scowled at the seamstress. Tina blinked up, squinting, her eyes sensitive to the sudden bright candlelight of the room. At sight of the open mirror and the hidden corridor beyond which Erik and Christine stood, her mouth dropped open.

"Make no mention of what you have seen," Erik warned. "If ever you or your daughter speak of what lies beyond the looking glass, I will take her from you as swiftly as I have brought her to you today. Be assured of that. Nor will you continue to hold a position in this theater."

"Oui. I will tell no one." The woman fearfully wrapped her arms tightly around her daughter.

With her skinny arms also hugging her mother, the girl smiled at him, disconcerting Erik with her blind trust in the face of his ire. "I'll not tell anyone your secret, not ever, Monsieur Opera Ghost-Angel. Thank you for bringing me to my maman."

He stared at the child without a word then swiftly turned on his heel. Christine looked at the occupants of the room once last time, each in turn, trying to relay a message of reassurance when she felt none to give, then leaned the crutch against the wall and hastened to follow. The mirror closed swiftly behind her by magic, the sound of it being latched immediate.

She could make out Erik a short distance ahead, in retreat and not slowing his maddened pace.

She ran after him in the dimly lit area, hoping not to stumble. "Angel, wait!"

He took several more steps before whirling to face her. The candelabra on the wall beside him flared to life and she was thankful for the light though it also sharpened the fury in his storm green eyes.

"_They_ _**know**_, Christine."

"They won't say a word," she soothed putting her hand to his stiff arm.

"How can you be so sure?" he snapped, pulling away.

"Because from what you've told me and what I've seen, Tina is everything to Dulscia. After your threat she wouldn't dare risk the chance of losing her only child, especially once I tell her about her mother's death. Tina is all she has left." She had disliked hearing the terrible condition he gave to the seamstress, reverting to his old role as a Phantom who terrorized, but at the same time sympathized with his fear of being discovered.

He calmed somewhat. "And what of the child?"

"She admires you, it's plain to see. I think we can trust her not to speak." She cupped the unmasked side of his face with one hand. This time he did not move. "You will see, my love. It will be alright. Please don't be cross."

He grabbed her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing her palm. "You are far too trusting, Christine."

Perhaps she was, but she didn't wish to think of the worst happening and disliked seeing him so upset. The day had proven to be a farce for their outing, but she could not dismiss the morning as a complete travesty. They had reunited a mother and her child. And she had finally met Tina…and seen Marie. She must ask Erik about Marie's words later, though the part of her that wished for her home to be safe from such predatory fiends recoiled from the knowledge.

She couldn't dwell on such bleak thoughts. Not now, not when she had the entire day to spend with her Phantom.

As they walked hand in hand through the dim corridor, the candles behind extinguishing as they passed, no doubt by his magic, Christine thought back to the awkward reunion in the dressing room. She hoped Meg would succeed in hiding the girl from detection, at least for the night. The kitten had been easier but they failed. How in the world could she hide a small child?

"You are deep in thought," Erik said, breaking her from them.

She did not wish to revisit the topic that gave him such unrest.

"I was thinking about what Meg said, about the kitten we tried to hide from Madame's knowledge."

"In your dormitory, in a box beneath the bed." He nodded in remembrance.

She looked at him, startled he would know that. "Yes. I had only been here a few months when we came across it in the stables. We had it such a short time before Madame heard it one night when she checked on us. She took it away. We never even decided on a name for it." She sighed. "It was the cutest thing. Like a cream-colored ball of fluff with black ears and a black face, much like it was wearing a mask, and it had eyes like the sky on the clearest of days."

"Ayesha."

"What?" She looked at him and he glanced over his shoulder.

"The cat's name was Ayesha."

"But - how would you know that?" She hastened to his side as they turned into a corridor that widened enough for two people to walk and looked intently at his face.

"I took it."

"You _took_ _it?_"

"Yes, but you knew that." He cast a sidelong glance at her, his lips twisting in a fond smile. "Do you not remember? You came to the chapel the next morning, upset..."

Christine blinked at his reminder, going back to the memory. She had been heartbroken, not understanding why they couldn't keep the kitten in the dormitory, even if it was against rules or one of the girls had allergies to fur. It had been her frequent sneezes that gave the secret away, when the little feline played naughty and found its way atop her cot. With a firm reprimand to Meg and Christine, Madame had taken their forbidden pet to the stables. But when Christine and her friend slipped away later to look for it, the little feline could not be found.

A soft smile lifted her lips. "I was worried something awful had happened to the kitten, but you assured me it would be alright. You told me you would give it a home and keep it safe for me."

"I did. For nine years."

It warmed her heart to know the truth. "What happened to her?"

"Last year she was napping near the stove, as was her custom." His words came quietly. "She never again opened her eyes."

As sad as it was to hear her little stray was truly gone, she felt happy to know where the kitten had been.

"Thank you for telling me, Mon Ange. It pleases me to know that she had a good life, with you."

"I would do anything for you, Christine. Even then. I admit that I developed a partiality to the creature. Animals do not care about the outward appearance of man, even if he resembles a beast."

Not wishing to engage in yet another endless argument about his face, Christine squeezed his hand and focused ahead, suddenly aware of her surroundings. She turned a puzzled look toward him as they approached a familiar door.

"But…I thought." She shook her head slightly. "Where are we going?"

"You mentioned a wish to visit your father's grave?"

Elation buoyed her heart, but before she could speak, he put a finger to his lips and opened the secret door.

"Wait here," he whispered near her ear, the brush of his lips against her temple and the coolness of his glove against her cheek giving her warm shivers that tingled through her blood. For a fleeting moment she wished they were five levels below, again in their bed, and smiled secretly at the wicked thought.

Heartened that he was willing to prolong their excursion, Christine watched her Phantom walk toward the stables. After all that had happened, she had supposed he would wish only to seek solitude beneath the earth, in the dark stillness of their home. Hope budded anew that perhaps there might be future outings, and one day he would come to accept what had been her world, of daylight and fresh air, to also feel that he belonged to it…

After a short time, he returned.

"The way is clear, but snow is now falling." He brought his hands around her back and pulled her hood up over her head. "Come."

She slipped her hand into his outstretched glove and hurried with him to the carriage. A layer of snow coated the streets and rooftops, evidence that spring had not yet fully arrived.

A young woman in a tattered coat and holding a basket of flowers hurried up to them before Erik could close the coach door.

"Monsieur - I have more of the roses you wanted when you asked me that night weeks ago."

"Not now," he said gruffly, moving to turn away.

Christine reached forward to put a staying hand on his arm. "Erik." He met her eyes. "Please?"

He gave the girl a coin. Her eyes grew round as she looked at it then at the basket as he scooped all the roses from it.

"Merci, monsieur," she gave a bobbing nod, a pleased smile on her face as she ran to the other side of the street.

"I only wanted one," Christine said, a little stunned as he laid the bounty of crimson roses in her lap.

"And now you have over a dozen."

Before she could thank him, he closed the door. She shook her head, wondering if she would ever understand his mercurial moods. He didn't appear angry, but he definitely had not been pleased to see the little flower girl.

Her words came back to haunt Christine: _I have more of the roses you wanted when you asked me that night weeks ago._ Weeks ago…the night of their wedding. It had to be. The lair had been an aromatic garden of roses. To find so many, in all likelihood he would have needed to approach every flower girl in Paris…

which meant he _had_ been on the streets at the time Lord Dubois was murdered.

"No!" she scolded herself, angered by the direction of her thoughts. "Erik is no more a murderer than I am a fairy princess." Blast Raoul for planting the idea in Meg's mind that he was!

Somewhat soothed by her vocal reprimand, she picked up the bouquet, bringing the fragrant petals to her nose. A thorn scratched the pad of her finger and she hissed at the sting, dropping the flowers back to her lap. Erik always stripped the roses he gave her of all thorns, and she had been careless in forgetting he'd had no such opportunity. Acting with caution seemed to be a lifetime lesson. She sucked the drop of blood from her finger and glanced out the window, noting they were nearing the cemetery.

Her mind went to earlier in the dressing room and she wondered what Meg wished to discuss. Wondered too why the dressing room door was damaged. She hoped they would fix it soon to eliminate any danger of Erik being caught…

And the seamstress and her daughter had seen the hidden passageway.

Christine shivered, the chill in the air having little to do with it. As much as she wanted to believe the woman would never reveal Erik's secret, she did not know Duslcia. She could only hope for the best until she again spoke to her.

Once the carriage rolled to a stop, she was thankful to leave its confinement and her imprisonment of thoughts, and smiled brightly at her husband as he helped her step down. His eyes narrowed, as if he sensed her contentment was only a façade. She grabbed his hand with her free one, the other holding the roses to her breast.

"Would you not prefer to leave your flowers in the carriage, my dear?"

"I wanted them for this. I never had flowers to bring before."

His expression softened and he nodded. They walked through a side entrance, the snow falling more heavily now, a thick layer of white powder coating the earth. With Erik's hand at her waist, they moved between rows of marble statues, mostly of angels guarding the dead, until they came to her father's sepulcher. The skies had grown darker, frightful shadows cast at odd angles by the myriad headstones, but standing within the circle of her Angel's arm, Christine felt safe.

She bent to lay the sumptuous bouquet on the first stair and straightened.

"For you, Papa." She glanced at Erik, wrapping both of her hands around his strong arm. "I brought someone with me today. Someone I think you'll be very pleased to receive. My Angel of Music that you promised me - Erik de Chagny - and now my husband." Though she barely uttered the words above a whisper in the still air, she felt his muscle tense at the sound of his true surname, but he remained silent.

"I think you would be pleased to know, Papa, that I am so very happy." She glanced into her beloved's eyes, rewarded when he gave her a smile - slight. But a smile nonetheless. "Please tell Mama also, since I cannot visit her grave as I don't know where it is." Her tone grew wistful. "But I'm sure you are with her, listening to the stars as they sing. The flowers I brought, they are for both of you."

Christine brushed the dampness from her lashes and watched as Erik knelt down to one knee and took up one of the roses. He turned and held it out to her, his every action fluid. She looked at him in confusion.

"I should think it would please them to know your token of affection is shared among the three of you."

She gave a little smiling nod and took the rose, his thoughtful gesture threatening to bring a second rush of tears. He stood to his feet and gently clasped her arms, brushing his hands down them. Placing her free hand against the perfect side of his face and looking into his beautiful green eyes with their flecks of bright gold, she opened her mouth to relay to him the depth of her love, but never got the chance.

The unmistakable click of metal had them both quickly turn to look toward the side of the grave.

Christine gasped in horror, at the same time Erik pushed her behind him with one arm, reaching into his cloak with the other.

"I would not do that if I were you, monsieur." The Vicomte regarded him in derision, holding a pistol aimed at his heart. A sword was strapped to his side.

"Raoul, what are you doing?" Christine cried. "Have you gone mad?"

"I could ask the same of you, Lotte," he said quietly. "Do you not know what sort of creature you're consorting with?"

"Raoul - stop this at once!" Christine tried to edge past Erik, hoping to reason with her old friend, but Erik's arm kept her firmly in place. "You're making a dreadful mistake."

"A mistake?" He laughed harshly. "This fool has sided with the enemy and is likely responsible for the death of a good friend of my family."

Erik sneered. "I side with no man. Lower your weapon, boy, before you injure Christine."

"My aim is accurate. Your lies will not save you. I know the truth."

"_You know nothing,_" Erik spat.

"I know you hired a detective to seek information about my family! Why - if not to assess its wealth for your despicable Commune?"

Erik scoffed out a harsh laugh. "You take me for a member of the Commune? Then you, sir, are more of a fool than I _took you_ for."

"_**Cease your lies, damn you!**_ Why else would you hide in shadows and keep your activities clandestine? I tried to attain the help of a detective the managers recommended to obtain information on you - he refused, saying it would be a conflict of interest. It wasn't difficult to piece the truth together - especially when I spoke to our servants, who told me Monsieur Lasalle had come to the manor and questioned _**them **_about _**my family!**_"

"_**You thought to send a bloodhound after me to uncover my secrets?**_"

Enraged that the boy had crossed such a forbidden line - and used his own private detective to do it! - Erik struggled to keep his temper in check, to keep his thoughts clear. Christine had gone still and silent behind him, and he saw his chance.

"Then you admit you have secrets!" The fool boy announced in triumph.

"Doesn't everyone?" Erik asked, his voice rich velvet wrapped within a blade.

Beneath his cloak, the Phantom surreptitiously lifted his hand, palm up, flicking his fingers in a swift motion. The sepulcher at the top of the stairs beside them glowed with fiery red light from within, the gates swinging slowly outward in eerie welcome.

Christine gasped and clutched Erik's cloak while the Vicomte pretender swung his startled gaze in the direction of the vision of hell opening up to embrace him.

It was the opening the Phantom needed.

With the speed of a serpent's strike he withdrew his Punjab and threw it with deadly precision around the Vicomte's wrist, jerking the rope at an angle away from them. The pistol discharged and fell useless to the snow, the futile bullet chipping a nearby headstone.

"Damn you!" the Vicomte growled, grabbing his wrist.

Christine darted out from behind Erik, diverting his attention. "Christine, no - stay back!" he ordered too late.

A sudden wrenching of his arm caused him to stagger as the loathsome boy pulled the lasso from his glove with a violent tug. The boy glared at the rope he'd secured, swiftly working to unfasten it from his wrist.

"Where have I seen this before?" he sneered, holding the loosened Punjab up then throwing it to the ground. "You, monsieur, are a murdering fiend, a loathsome coward who hides in darkness, and I will do all of Paris an enormous act of goodwill to be rid of you."

The Vicomte took a step back, pulling his sword from its scabbard.

Recognizing yet another warped shadow of the future that was never to be, Erik growled and roughly pushed Christine out of the way of danger - then did the same.

xXx

* * *

**A/N: Ah, at last the brothers meet. 0-:-) *insert angelic-wicked grin…**

**(Do I need to run?)**

**Again, thank you for the many reviews. They are such an encouragement.  
**


	47. Conquest is Assured

**A/N: To those who've been waiting- a thousand pardons! I didn't think it would take so long…so how about a long, juicy chapter to sink your teeth into? ;-) – thank you for the wonderful reviews! …**

**And now…**

* * *

**Chapter XLVII**

**.**

Christine looked up in horror from her horizontal position in the snow. Ignoring the stinging particles of icy powder against her hands, she struggled to sit up, her attention focused on the two enraged men a short distance away. They circled each other like wary wolves defending their dens, their swords drawn to attack and glittering despite the murky afternoon.

"Erik, please, _**you must stop this**_. Raoul, listen to me, you have _**no idea**_ what you're doing!"

"I know exactly what I'm doing – _**ridding the world of a monster!**_"

"Seek safety, Christine," Erik snapped out. "_**I want you**_ _**nowhere**_ _**near this!**_"

Neither did she want her husband to fight, but that seemed irrelevant to him. Both men had abandoned all reason where the other was concerned, each determined to skirmish and claim victory - in what appeared a fight to the death.

_"This insolent boy needs to be taught his place," _Erik seethed.

"_My place?_ Who are _**you**_ to tell me of my place?" Raoul ground out. "A common beast! _A_ _murderer_! With no charitable thought for mankind!"

Raoul lunged and struck out in a series of sharp swings, Erik only just managing to deflect the blade with his sword, the heavy cloak he wore an impediment to his usual rapid and lithe movement. Christine clutched her throat in a mute scream, her other hand gripping the base of a statue, as with horror-struck eyes she watched each fierce slash of deadly metal slice ever nearer to her beloved's head and heart.

Dear God, she could not bear this, _but what could she do!_ She was helpless - both men deaf to her pleas or to reason - and she was only able to stand and observe the horrible nightmare like a numbed spectator on the sidelines unequipped to prevent an unfurling tragedy. But she was _more_ than a spectator - Erik had made her into more - he was her husband, and Raoul had once been her only friend and was now family. The two men _were_ _brothers, _for pity's sake_ - _and Erik knew this! He had shown her proof.

"Stop it!" she cried again, knowing it was useless but unable to hinder any attempt to end such madness. "This is so terribly wrong! You must both cease fighting at once!"

Neither man appeared to pay attention to her, each scrutinizing his contender with eyes that burned and, had they the ability, would surely scorch flesh.

"You thought to destroy my family," Raoul yelled, "_**now I will destroy you!**_"

He lunged and struck, Erik bringing his sword up to deflect the attack as wicked silver made a strident crash with wicked silver.

"Better men than you have tried, and failed. You are nothing but _**a pathetic boy**_ - _with aspirations to be a man!"_

He used force to push Raoul back, causing the Vicomte to almost lose his footing.

Raoul scowled. "Then you **_admit_** you wrote that hostile letter to my father?"

"I admit nothing! I wish nothing to do with **_any contemptible_ _De Chagny!_**"

Erik spat the name like a curse and darted behind a statue, putting the wide slab of marble between himself and his pursuer. With one hand, he unfastened his heavy, impeding cloak, letting it slip to the ground and again faced the Vicomte who abruptly appeared around the corner of a pair of tall granite angels. He swung his sword at Erik's neck, while Erik brought his arm high, parrying the blow, then spun around with agility slicing the sword toward the Vicomte's side. Raoul barely dodged the lethal blade in time.

They circled a tall statue, and Christine darted to where they'd just been to collect Erik's cloak from the frozen ground. She clasped it to her breast and straightened, whirling around to witness the awful spectacle. As much as she did not want to see this, every moment making her sick with terror, she could not look away.

In a perilous ballet they lunged and parried across a battleground of pure snow. Each vicious clang of metal rang in the still air and elicited a wrench of pain to Christine's shattering heart.

Erik evaded another swing and Raoul's sword crashed against a tree hitting a low overhanging branch that brought a macabre shower of fine white powder pouring down on their heads. Momentarily diverted, both men took seconds to wipe their eyes with thumbs and fingertips, to clear their vision, their mannerisms nearly identical, like mirror images. Dear God, if she didn't know the truth, just watching them in one another's presence for a time would suggest the probability.

The Vicomte had clearly been trained and was the better swordsman, skilled with a blade and highly practiced - but Erik was no amateur. A worthy opponent, he was swift and sure, true with his blows, his swiftness and dexterity an aid in evading Raoul's furious lunges and a deterrent to his capture.

Christine watched her husband's skill in a state of horrified bewilderment, a lump lodged in her throat. A fraction of her mind that somehow remained rational in the fury of such insanity wondered where he had learned his expertise. Certainly not from books, or from observing then imitating the stage actors who possessed no true skill! He must have learned in the three years he'd been absent from the opera house, and in her current state of near panic to lose him, she realized there was so much about her mystifying Phantom she didn't know and wanted to.

God, that the opportunity would not be seized from her!

What could Raoul be thinking to attack and so savagely? Her husband was no more a leader of the Commune than she was - she doubted that he even cared what leadership ruled France - revolutionists or the realm - as long as it posed no threat to their private lives or their livelihood at the opera house. All she wanted was for them to be left alone and for her to be allowed to love the man of her choosing for all of one lifetime. Monarchies had no say in that, nor did socialists, therefore she did not truly care who ruled, as long as no one was hurt or killed. But the man she once thought a friend now threatened to destroy her every aspiration with a single slash of his blade!

Erik nimbly leapt atop the base of a statue and fought Raoul from an elevated position a few feet above the snow. Raoul's sword dully clanged against marble when his wild swing did not connect, and Erik again jumped to level ground, barely avoiding a sideways slash of Raoul's weapon. He landed in a crouch, saving himself from a fall with his hand, then shot to a standing position, whirled about and reciprocated with another swing - this one connecting to Raoul's arm. Wounded, the Vicomte fell to the snow.

Christine covered her mouth in horror to trap a scream, which tore from her throat when Raoul rolled quickly away before Erik could again strike - and thrust upward, paying back in kind with his blade. Erik dodged to the side, but not in time.

"Dear God - **NO!**"

She rushed forward, her stomach turning at the frightening sight of blood on Erik's waistcoat. In her haste, she stumbled on his cloak that she still hugged to her heart. Impulsively she cried out, using one hand to save her head from striking a nearby slab of stone.

Erik swung his attention to her, his eyes wide in fear.

"CHRISTINE!"

Raoul seized the ill-gotten opportunity of distraction to strike his blade hard against Erik's, knocking it from his hand. Her Phantom dashed to crawl and retrieve his weapon. Raoul kicked it away and thrust his blade inches from Erik's heart before he could scramble to his feet.

"_**Raoul- no!**_" she cried, struggling to push herself up. _**"You can't!"**_

The Phantom lay sprawled on his back, highly infuriated and likewise disgusted - the wretched boy's blade ready to impale him. He silently laughed in self mockery at this twisted version of future shadows. Of course the Fates would render such a conclusion worthy of their sick amusements and add their own morbid touch in this inversion of the present, a warped shadow of what he was warned would come. Erik, now also wounded - _the_ _new twist_ to the story - with the rest of the outcome unchanged: his life still wavering near the end of a damned blade and at the idiot boy's mercy. A trait of which the de Chagnys had none.

Damn the wretched Fates. He could almost hear the three ghouls who had abducted him for their infernal night of horrors laughing at his planned humiliation.

Christine raced toward them and threw herself down to her knees by his side, her entire body trembling.

"Mon Ange - you're hurt!"

"No more than a scratch," he muttered as she gently touched his sleeve above the slashed and reddened material. His arm throbbed with fire but his pride had taken the greater blow. "I've suffered far worse."

Christine swung her attention up to Raoul, her dark eyes burning in angry determination.

"Sheathe your sword and leave him be!" Her voice was steady and grim. "You cannot mean to harm him, to _kill_ him! I will _never_ let you do such a vile thing."

She spread her arm in a protective motion, her cloak draping him, and though the gesture was futile if the damnable boy meant to go through with his objective, her bold act of courage touched the Phantom's heart.

"You've been brainwashed by his lies," his fool attacker insisted. "You don't know what danger you're in, Lotte! He's with the Commune - intent on destroying my family with their odious brand of evil. I have no doubt he wrote a letter delivered to my father. An anonymous letter of appointment demanding his presence, which has _his_ signature of death and demands written all over it - the same belligerence he used with the managers. He wishes to steal the de Chagny wealth!"

"Rubbish!- I wrote no damnable letter to any de Chagny - _and certainly never to him!_"

Glaring at the intrusive boy, Erik laughed shortly in loathing, thinking his proclamation absurd. If he only knew how justified Erik was to claim that damned inheritance the fool de Chagny spawn so desperately guarded!

"Erik is no more a communist than I am. You don't know him, but I do. He speaks the truth when he says he has no interest in your family fortune."

"Listen to yourself, Christine," Raoul practically begged. "Can you not see that he's deceived you? He admitted to having secrets - or did you miss that part of his confession?"

"_I confess nothing!_" Erik growled.

"That does not mean his secrets are secrets of which to be ashamed!" Christine insisted at the same time, her anxious gaze meeting Erik's.

"Christine - open your eyes! He wears a mask for God's sake! Why do you think he would do that if not to hide his identity - and for good reason?"

"You know nothing, Raoul." She stared at him in resentment and, to Erik's horror, placed her palm on the flat of the blade, pushing it away. "Put that horrid thing up before you do worse than you've done already."

"Christine, no - you've cut yourself," Erik chastised, his heart skipping a beat to see a flash of red near her thumb.

"I'm alright. It wasn't the blade, it was the thorn from earlier. But blood has soaked through your sleeve!"

"It is nothing, Mon Ange…"

She pulled her scarf from her neck and wound it around his upper arm, ignoring Raoul who stood poised above them. Grimly he watched, with the tip of his sword pointed to the snow and thankfully no longer near Christine.

She again swung her angry focus the Vicomte's way. "How could you do this to him, after all I told you in my dressing room. _After knowing_ _how I feel?_"

"In case you haven't noticed, he isn't the sole victim in this." He motioned to his own bloody sleeve.

Erik snorted in derision.

"And whose fault is that?" Christine's swift reply was devoid of sympathy. "Who came up behind who and attacked while we were visiting my father's grave?"

"After all I've told you with regard to his investigations into my family – and _still_ you defend him?"

"Perhaps there are good reasons for his involvement - did you ever stop to consider that?"

"Christine…" Erik warned beneath his breath, worried that in her vexations, she would spill every one of his closely guarded secrets.

She sent him a penitent look before again addressing the boy. "You condemn him for the same act that you admitted to. You hired a man to investigate Erik. By what reason do you deem his action a crime and your own fitting of a worthy cause? How is it that you consider yourself without fault in this matter?"

"The managers rely on me for the safety of everyone living and working at the opera house. It is _my duty_ to investigate the irksome ghost who has haunted and terrorized them for years - and rid them of the threat."

"_You_ - a threat _to me_?" Erik laughed, though sprawled on the snow he was admittedly at a distinct disadvantage. He struggled to sit up, pushing away Christine's hand as she tried to help. "Do not underestimate me, Vicomte. Despite your small victory here today, I am by no means incapable of attaining all of what I desire and will let no man, and certainly no _impudent_ _boy_ stand in my way."

"There - do you hear, Christine? _Tell me that was no threat!_"

"No less than your own," she clipped. "And contrary to your belief, your intimidation does not soften my heart toward your cause."

"Bah - the fool does not intimidate me!" Erik directed his acidic words to the Vicomte. "Let us go another round with the blades, and you will see that I do not fear your pathetic boasts."

"Erik, please…"

"Listen to him speak, Christine. _**This**_ is the teacher and companion you have entrusted with your life?! Even now he thinks only of violence as a justifiable means to gain triumph!"

"As do you. You two are both so damnably stubborn and more alike than you realize!"

Both Phantom and Vicomte stared at her in horror, and she felt a flush of warmth to speak so brusquely. Much like…the Phantom's wife might speak. She lifted her chin.

"How can you compare me to that monster?" Raoul hissed. "He has killed innocent men in cold blood. He killed Lord Dubois - my father's good friend."

"Were you there? Did you see him do it?" Christine rose to her feet as she spoke. "I don't believe he killed anyone that night. But today you would have gladly done the same - _to him_."

Erik had never seen her behave with such dignified maturity as in these last few minutes, and he stared with wonder at his young bride. They had always shared an inexpressible connection, stronger since their union, and by the determined luster in her vibrant eyes and the high color in her cheekbones, he realized what she was about to reveal.

Under the circumstances, he felt no compunction to stop her.

"Leave him be, Raoul, if you ever once cared for me or respected our friendship, turn around and go, and never hunt him down like an animal again. He's not a dragon to slay, and I'm no longer a young damsel at the seaside, playing at fairy tales and in need of rescuing."

"I don't understand, Christine - has he put you under a spell? Why is it that you're the only one who cannot see the danger?"

"And why is it that you're the only one blind to all the facts? Meg, Madame Giry, no one who _knows_ _him_ thinks any less of Erik as a person. Ask yourself why that is?"

"Knowledge and fear are not the same."

"They do not fear him either."

Erik rose to his feet, having heard enough. The Vicomte darted his eyes toward him in wary knowledge, before looking back at Christine.

"Anything I ever did or will do is to protect you _and_ _everyone_ who resides at the opera house - where he lurks in the shadows like a spectral madman. You cannot deny that."

"I can and do. I need no protection from my husband - and he's not a madman, spectral or otherwise."

The words fell into the still, crisp air, the impact like the tinkling of sharp, pure icicles hitting stone between them and the blasted boy. To Erik's ears, her admission was the most beautiful notes of steadfast devotion. As he had suspected she would do, in her gentle tenacity his Angel had disclosed the truth of their relationship.

The Vicomte's mouth dropped open in horror. "Good God, Christine - _no_. Do not speak such falsehoods to save him."

"I speak only what's true," she said calmly. "Moreover, if you continue with this heartless mission you've undertaken to capture or kill him, then you might as well drive your sword through my heart while you're about it. Without Erik in my life, I would not wish to go on living."

In the face of such loyalty, however difficult it was to hear her reckless invitation to death, Erik slipped his arm around her waist, drawing her close to his side. In this very spot, he had seen her ghost, had seen Death claim her with its skeletal hand. He could not bear the thought of losing her. Christine turned into Erik slightly, resting her head in the nook of his shoulder.

"There is no cousin, is there?" the Vicomte asked quietly.

She hesitated then shook her head. "No."

"You were with him."

"Yes."

"How long, Christine? How long has this been going on?"

"That is not your concern, boy -"

Christine pressed a calm, steadying hand to Erik's chest.

"The night of my opening in the Don Juan opera was also the night of my wedding."

The Vicomte's shock seemed to electrify the air.

"How can you claim to love such a beast?" his voice came hoarse. "You cannot truly believe that one with his tarnished history has the capacity to love in return? His kind knows only the lust of the flesh and the lust for evil deeds!"

"Do not presume to understand all of what I do and do not feel!" Erik seethed, weary of the boy's vindictive slights. "But no matter how you feel about me - you will cease to persecute _my wife!_"

The Victome's face blanched, blending with the surroundings of snow and death. "He has tricked you, Christine! Seduced your mind! You would never have agreed to this foul union had he not put you under his spell."

"You think me unworthy of love, monsieur?" The Phantom sneered, already knowing the answer.

It was what the multitudes had told him. What he himself once thought. He _was_ unworthy. But his Angel had seen fit to take mercy on him, despite his warped face and character. For whatever reason she had given him her love, the entirety of who she was, and now the boy knew it too. The thought surged like a triumphant blare of victory through his chagrin of losing the fight.

"You see me only as a monster that must be hunted and destroyed. A Devil's Child, an Angel of Death...You think this Living Corpse should know nothing but pain and fear? Or perhaps you do not believe that I possess the ability to feel?"

Something flickered in Raoul's eyes, a strange awareness, but he remained silent.

Christine barely could stand to hear such words from the man she held most dear and clutched Erik's unwounded arm.

"There are some who disagree with you," he looked at her, his voice softening, "though for what purpose I cannot begin to understand."

She smiled at him tenderly then directed her gaze to the weapon Raoul had yet to sheathe, her smile fading, before looking at him. "Will you let us go? You should see your arm tended to, as well." Her voice softened marginally, not without compassion to see her old friend in similar distress. "I have nothing more to bind your wound."

She felt Erik tense against her. Raoul softly shook his head at Christine, as if still disbelieving of all that occurred, then turned his attention to Erik.

"One question." Raoul's manner remained grim, his eyes dismal, his mouth a determined line. "If you are not a member of the Commune, why did you send a detective to investigate my family?"

"If you wish to know the truth of your pathetic quest, look to your own heritage."

"What in blazes is that supposed to mean?" Raoul stared at him in confusion.

"You suppose yourself so clever," Erik growled, "you figure it out. But do not send your prying fools to spy on me again!" He slipped his hand to the small of Christine's back. "Come, my dear. It is high time we leave this infernal purgatory."

Christine anxiously looked up at her husband's stony countenance and awkwardly moved with him to collect his sword and go. She darted a glance back at Raoul, to ensure that he wouldn't instigate another attack while their backs were turned. He met her eyes, but she could not read their emotion.

.

**xXx**

.

"Are you certain this is wise?" The seamstress looked doubtful.

"It's the best place to hide her," Meg assured. "Every other room in the opera house is privy to no less than twenty people going in and out daily. Here, you have only the night maid, who is old and deaf as a post, the hairdresser, who might as well be, as little regard as she gives to our voiced preferences - but she only comes in before a performance. Tina will need to be quiet then, but Christine will be here, so she'll know to warn her in advance. Then there's my mother who makes a rare visit on occasion. She's the one we need to be extra wary of, since sometimes she lets herself in with a key. That leaves yourself, me, and Christine…"

…And the Phantom, though she didn't add his name upon bearing witness to how terrified Dulscia was of him, the encounter fresh in Meg's mind. At one time, Meg also feared the silent ruler of the opera house, when he was unknown to her - a ghost story in the night to entertain and frighten sleepless young girls. As the weeks elapsed, in Christine's presence Meg began to see a different side to the Phantom, no longer a masquerading angel or feigned ghost, but a man of mystery called Erik. One whom her friend loved dearly. To gain Christine's adoration, when no other man could once turn her head - _not even the Vicomte_ - Meg reasoned that the Phantom must possess outstanding qualities, and she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"But will Mademoiselle Daae not mind sharing her dressing room?"

"Since it was her idea to hide Tina at the opera house, I doubt she'll have any objections."

A little perturbed that Christine had sprung this on her then left her alone to manage the impossible situation, at the moment Meg could care less what her friend thought. From her kneeling position on the floor, she smiled at the child, who shyly smiled back.

"With these thick pillows, you should be comfortable. They were used years ago for an opera with a harem involved."

"What's a harem?"

"Oh, well…it's a – a bedroom for a king's wives."

"A king has more than one wife…?" The girl looked awestruck. "Why?"

"Um, yes," Meg awkwardly cleared her throat. "I'll let your mother tell you about that."

"Another time, Tee-ninesey," Dulscia forestalled the question. "Are you hungry?"

"Miss Daae and the Monsieur Angel-Phantom gave me food." The child cocked her head of messy copper curls. "Do you know him, mademoiselle?" She looked at Meg.

"Not well, no."

"He takes care of me."

The child yawned, her eyelids drooping, and laid her head on one of the silk pillows of the makeshift bed while pulling the ample velvet cape over herself as a covering - also a castoff from an old opera that Meg found in the wardrobe area.

"Yes, well…" Meg didn't know how to respond to that. "You get some sleep. Remember to stay inside with the curtains closed and not make a sound."

Tina nodded, closing her eyes. "I can be very quiet. Grand-maman calls me her little mouse."

"Thank you for your kindness," Dulscia whispered as Meg stood and closed the curtains that covered the shallow niche. Intended for a closet that once kept La Carlotta's numerous accessories for her poodle, the rectangular cubbyhole served well to shelter the child. Located behind the vanity table, it was out of the way and hidden from view to anyone entering the dressing room. Though she hoped that a carpenter would come soon to fix the door so it would lock. It unnerved her not to have that added security. She darted a glance toward it, fearing her mother might suddenly appear.

"I must return to practice," she told the seamstress, "and if you don't want anyone getting suspicious, I suggest you get back to whatever it is you should be doing too."

With no more said, Meg exited the room and hurried down the corridor that held her mother's office, glimpsing past the open door. She stopped and blinked in surprise.

"Vicomte…?"

His attitude somber, he stood alone and absent of his waistcoat, holding his arm above the elbow.

"Meg. I need to speak with your mother."

"She's likely on stage with the other dancers - but - what happened to your arm?" Her eyes widened in horror when she spotted red smearing his fingers. "You're bleeding!"

"It's nothing. I'll tend to it later. I'm rather pressed for time…"

"It's hardly nothing," she insisted, fighting an abrupt wave of lightheadedness. She stepped inside, swiftly shutting the door behind her, and wet a cloth with some of her mother's wine. In want of water, which she didn't dare fetch in the chance that he would then leave during her absence, she felt it would suffice to clean the wound.

She faced him."Please," she urged when he only stared.

He hesitated, then pulled his hand away. Her stomach turned anew to see his sleeve split and coated with blood, a long gash marring his muscled flesh.

"Are you alright?" he asked in concern.

"I-I'm fine," she whispered, detesting the malady of her weakness. Her hand trembled as she brought the cloth up to soak the sleeve and loosen the dried blood.

"You don't look fine. You look as if you might faint at any moment." Gently he grasped her arm, helping her to the chair in front of the desk. "Sit down, Meg. I can look after my arm."

Unable to control her body's wretched trembling, she did as ordered.

"You must think me a pathetic child," she said in self disgust, looking away as he began to clean the wound.

"No." He briefly glanced at her in surprise. "Why should I think that?"

"Because of my lack of nerve and my utter stupidity." He hissed in pain as he dabbed his arm and she closed her eyes, imagining the sight. "I've never been able to tolerate the sight of blood."

"It's nothing of which to be ashamed. I knew a man who exhibited courage in every area and suffered from the same problem. It wasn't something he had the power to curb or prevent."

"Yes, that's it exactly." With a few considerate words he managed to excuse her behavior and make her feel better about her helpless condition. She forced herself to look at his sleeve, gauging his own state. "What happened?"

"I found the Phantom."

His four quiet words brought a different surge of wooziness to her head, and she gripped the chair arms.

"And Christine?"

"She was with him."

"Is she…" She didn't know how to finish, "alright?"

"It depends on your definition of the word. Tell me, Meg, did you know they were married?"

She drew in a surprised breath, glanced away, and gave a little nod.

"And you didn't think to tell me?"

At the underlying hurt in his tone, she frowned. "It wasn't my place. I promised to keep her secret."

"Does it not concern you that Christine has linked her life with a monster who kills in cold blood?"

Meg winced. "I don't think he killed your father's friend."

"What gives you cause to believe that he didn't?"

"That was the night they were wed. And I -" She watched him turn his head away, his lips thinning, as if rejecting her words. "I sincerely doubt after seeing him that night – them together - that he had murder on his mind."

"You were there. At the wedding."

The detached words of awareness were not a question.

He looked at her sharply. "It was sanctioned, by a priest?"

Meg gave a curt nod. "Maman knew of him and fetched him at the Phantom's directive."

_"Damn him and his fiendish plans!"_

He threw the soiled cloth into the waste bin with a vengeance.

She startled at his fierce rejoinder, coming so unexpectedly.

"You still love her." Her words came leaden.

"What?" He turned to regard her.

"Christine. Despite what you said before, you still love her."

"I care for her and what happens to her, certainly. But no, I don't love her. Not in the way your tone suggests."

"I don't believe you." She lowered her gaze to her lap, loath to reveal more and let him see the true nature of her feelings.

He moved to stand before her. "Meg, I wish to discuss this with you, soon, but at present I must speak to your mother."

"Of course."

Quickly she rose, not meeting his eyes. He detained her with his hand to her arm before she could hurry away.

"Tonight, I'll return. We'll talk then."

"If you wish it."

"I do wish it."

His soft words brought her eyes to meet his clear blue ones. The look in them melted her heart to jelly and her bones to dust.

"Ten o'clock," he said. "Meet me in the theater."

She both cursed and blessed the sound of the door opening, not wishing to make even more of a fool of herself by swooning at his feet, even if she could use the sight of blood as her excuse, and moved a quick step back. Likewise, he dropped his hand from her arm before her mother could see.

Meg glanced her way, noting her sharp eyes assessing the situation with suspicion, then looked back to him.

"Yes, alright. Here she is now. I hope your arm heals soon, monsieur."

He nodded once, his eyes intent with the promise of their later meeting.

Meg scurried out the door, not daring to look in her mother's direction.

.

**xXx**

.

On their return to the Opera House, Christine insisted they tend to his arm before taking the long journey home. Erik acquiesced, escorting her to her dressing room. Christine noticed the seamstress inside and, remembering her dreaded mission, laid her hand against his sleeve.

"I must tell her of her mother's death and prepare her before the coroner can send someone to relay the news."

He looked through the mirror at the woman, his jaw rigid, and gave a curt nod. "I will return for you shortly."

"But - where are you going?" she asked, unable to hide her dismay. "She knows of your existence now."

Since their altercation with Raoul, Erik was brusque, an uncomfortable silence building between them that thickened with each minute that passed.

"I have business to attend."

"Your arm –"

"Can wait."

With no further explanation, he walked in the opposite direction and into the shadows. It would do no good to go after him. Not when he was in this mood. The more bitter he was, the more stubborn he could be. Frustrated, she slid open the mirror door, startling Dulscia, who turned and almost dropped the clothing she held.

"It's alright. It's only me." Christine drew her aside to sit on the chaise longue.

Dulscia told her of Tina's presence, and Christine thought Meg's solution a brilliant one. As gently as possible she broke the news to her seamstress, quietly so the child wouldn't overhear lest she had awakened. Dulscia took it well, grim but not surprised, admitting she already supposed something must have happened to her mother for Tina to be brought there, and Christine assured her again that she would do all within her power to keep the child safe, asking for Dulscia's loyalty in return.

"For reasons I don't wish to go into at the moment, it's imperative that you tell no one of the secret passageway." Christine nodded toward the mirror door. "I cannot stress how vital it is that you keep all of what you've seen to yourself. For the welfare of all involved."

Dulscia at first seemed doubtful but nodded. "He frightens me, I can't deny that, but whatever his reasons, he did help my daughter. So, oui, you have my word. I'll not share your secret."

"You have no idea how thankful I am to hear it."

"You're very brave to be in his presence. I've heard it said he's your teacher?"

"Yes." Christine curbed a frustrated reply, realizing that Dulscia spoke with the ignorance that all in the opera house possessed when it came to her husband.

Ever since she'd been a child she and the other ballet rats had been terrorized by tales of the Opera Ghost from Monsieur Buquet and others like him, who didn't know the full story but craved attention. Even then she sensed the lecherous stagehand was more a threat to her than the Phantom, though she didn't know he was her Angel of Music then.

"Erik can be somewhat complicated," she continued, "but there's much more to his character than what you've heard by others here, by those who don't know him."

"Has he ever hurt you, Mademoiselle?"

"No, never."

"Because if he has, you can tell me."

"Erik would _never_ harm me_._"

The seamstress seemed about to reply, then curbed it. Christine let out a tense breath, thinking it better to dispel all gossip before the imagination could puff it up into more.

"What is it you wish to say, Dulscia?"

"I don't wish to anger you. You've been so kind…"

"No, it's alright.

Dulscia looked down at the frothy gold material still bunched in her hands. Christine suddenly recognized it as her finale costume. Heat singed her cheeks when she recalled how it had been torn.

"He told me through one of his notes to make extras. This is one of them."

"Ah." Christine slightly nodded, too mortified to say more.

"Miss, I'm no innocent to the ways of the world. The location of the mending and the amount of damage done doesn't suggest it due to a hasty or reckless change of attire, as you said. Weeks ago, there was another of your costumes, ripped at the neck, it was, the stitching loose at the crotch, not ripped like the other but - "

"Yes," Christine hastened to say, before the woman could go into further detail. "Yes, you're correct. I apologize for the extensive damage."

"Never mind that. It's my job." She hesitated. "So he had his way with you then?" she whispered in sympathy.

"_What?!_ No!" Christine clasped her hands in her skirts, nervously rubbing her naked ring finger. "That is, he had every right -"

"Poor dear. He may be your teacher, but no man has the right to take you against your will."

"But he didn't take me against my will."

"Oh…I see."

At her cool change of tone, Christine shook her head. "No, I don't think you do."

"It's no business of mine, Miss. I shouldn't have spoken. I've heard of these arrangements, just never thought you were the type…"

Christine audibly sighed. Her reputation tattered and slowly going to ruin as she did no more than shake her head or feebly protest, she felt she had no choice but to speak.

"It's not that type of arrangement. May I tell you another secret and have your word that you'll not tell a soul?"

"I never would, Miss. Not after all you've done for my Tina."

Christine hesitated, hoping she wasn't making a mistake, then fished the rings from within her bodice. Dulscia's eyes grew round at the sight of them dangling from the chain that Christine held up for her to see, and she looked up at Christine in surprised question.

Christine nodded. "He's my husband."

"Merde…!" Dulscia clapped her hand to her mouth. "Oh pardon, Miss."

Christine smiled wryly, her reaction not surprising.

"But – you've told no one?"

"Very few know as yet. Now is not the time. I trust your discretion."

"Of course…" Dulscia's eyes gleamed and she grinned. "Well now, this puts a different light on things…"

"Yes, yes, I thought it might."

"I'm not too old to remember what it's like to have a bit of fun."

Terribly uncomfortable with the newest turn in conversation, especially with someone little more than a stranger, Christine looked away then gasped in shock.

"Erik."

Her Phantom stood in the mirror door, as silently as he'd entered. His eyes went to the rings pinched between her forefinger and thumb. Christine guiltily dropped the chain and awkwardly rose to her feet.

"Darling," she hurried to him and clasped his arm, "I've told Dulscia our wonderful news."

"So I hear…"

At the steady look in his stormy green eyes, she wondered what else he'd heard.

"I won't tell a soul, monsieur," Dulscia hastened to say, still visibly nervous, but not as fearful as before.

He gave a short nod. "See that you don't. Come, Christine."

He moved back into the passage. Christine offered a nervous nod to her seamstress before following her dour Phantom. He closed the mirror door with a whisk of his hand, secured the latch and moved down the dimly-lit passageway in the direction of their home.

Christine reassured herself that at least he had remembered to light the candles and sought her comfort…even if he was acting like a ghost and treating her as if _she_ did not exist.

She didn't speak until they had traversed two corridors to the third cellar and the silence grew too tedious.

"Please tell me you're not again angry with me."

A distracted glance in her direction was her only answer.

"I had no choice but to tell her, Mon Ange. She assumed…things. And I did not wish her to go on thinking…the wrong things."

At her ambiguous explanation, Erik lifted his brow. Her hunger as fierce as his when they made love - and still she retained a childlike innocence to speak with vague embarrassment of such encounters when alone with him. Her silent admission to the seamstress was not what upset him so, but rather the impudence of strangers and foes intruding where they had no right!

"Erik, please talk to me."

They had come to level ground and she put a hand to his arm. He slackened his rapid pace then stopped and turned to look at her.

"She had no right to say those 'things' she did to you, Christine."

"In doing so, at least she has shown that she cares..."

"As if I would ever harm a hair on your head," he seethed.

"…And in caring about my welfare," Christine quietly went on, "she is sure to remain loyal to me. To us. I believe that she will guard our secrets well."

He expelled a weary breath. "Let us hope she proves worthy of your trust."

She took his gloved hand in both of hers. "With her daughter in the balance, she cannot afford to do otherwise." She did not bring up Erik's threat to the woman, but in his eyes Christine saw that he recalled it.

He nodded once, and they continued their journey home.

"Did you speak to the managers about Tina?"

"The fools were not in their office. I'll try again later." His voice came terse. "I ran across the Vicomte in Giry's office though."

She inhaled a breath. "Did you speak to him?"

"He did not see me. I remained hidden but heard enough to know he will stop at nothing until he discovers all of who I am."

Erik scowled. The interloper had questioned Antoinette about the years he'd been absent from the opera house. How the boy discovered his absence remained a mystery, unless he had hired a second detective. To her credit, Antoinette did not divulge much, but then, she'd never been privy to that information to impart it.

"Would that really be so bad?"

He stopped walking and looked at her in horror. "What are you saying?"

"He's your brother. Is it so bad for you to know him...?"

Erik snorted and began to walk, tightening his grip on her hand. Christine kept up to his swift stride.

"...And for him to know you?"

"Impossible. You received a taste of how he wishes to achieve that today - _He would know me dead!_"

"But he doesn't know who you are!"

"Nor will he. And his pathetic hunts cannot continue."

She looked at him suspiciously. "What do you mean to do to him? Not anything like what you did to Buquet with the absinthe, surely?"

"I haven't decided. But something must be done…"

They had reached the boat, and he turned to her and cradled her face in his gloved hands.

"I don't like to be cross with you, Christine. Let us put the matter behind us."

She accepted his kiss, zealously returning the goodwill token with warm affection. It helped to take the sting out of the concern she displayed toward the Vicomte before they left the cemetery. Erik reminded himself that she had tended to _his_ arm, not the boy's, but with all the fool had been to her, the pang of jealous resentment had not ebbed. Nor had the pain in his arm, and he knew he should see to it soon.

Christine bore the same thought in mind as, once they entered their bedchamber, she turned to him as he peeled off his gloves. She struggled to undo the knot of her tight scarf and finally unwound it from his sleeve.

"Take off your coat and shirt and let me see to that arm - I'll hear no more excuses."

"As my lady wishes…"

Sitting on the edge of their bed, he first let his cloak fall to the coverlet and grimaced at the dried blood causing the material to adhere to his skin - all the while entertained by her no nonsense attitude, much as she behaved when he'd taken ill. He decided there were times that he liked her willful and full of fire, outside of their bed as well as inside it, and this was one of them.

No stranger to pain, relentlessly the Phantom pulled the linen away as she gathered the items needed. She returned with her hands full and sat down beside him. As he had guessed, his arm was nicked, the wound a long slice but not appearing so deep as to need sewn, though with how harshly he had removed his shirt, the gash again bled freely.

Christine gently swabbed the area with water from the basin, her distressed eyes windows to her gentle soul. She lifted the brandy bottle and unstopped it.

"This is how it's done?"

He gave a short nod, noting her hesitation. "If you would rather I do it…"

"No, I'm your wife. I'm not a child. I can do this."

She bit her lip, despising her imminent task, and poured the reddish-gold liquid over the straight, angry slash that marred his pale skin. His body went rigid and though he remained silent she saw the pained wince of his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, a tremble to her voice.

"It's alright."

"I hate to cause you pain…"

He eased the bottle from her clenched hand, set it on the ground then reached for her wrist, slowly pulling her onto his lap. "My Angel, compared to the many tortures I have known, this is the very least."

She drew her brows together. "I don't want to think of all you once suffered either." Her fingertips traced tiny circles through the dusting of hair in the middle of his chest.

"You are helping, not hurting me." His lips brushed her temple, her actions both soothing and stirring his blood. "Now come. Bandage my arm like a good little wife. I have business that waits for me above."

Her tiny smile to hear his lighthearted reference to her status dissipated at hearing his quest. "You're leaving again so soon?"

"I must speak to the managers and to Antoinette. This will not wait."

She nodded, thinking of Tina. "I might take advantage of the secret spring."

"Yes, you do that." He helped her to rise with one hand to her back. "I want you fresh and sweet and scented upon my return."

"You have plans for me, my husband?" she said with an alluring smile, a hint of rose tingeing her skin.

He cursed his current plans that would take him from her side, but they could not be delayed. Better to initiate these far more satisfying plans when they could linger in their bed.

"Always, I have plans for you, my sweet wife…"

Once she bandaged his wound and he donned fresh clothing, along with his cloak and gloves, he kissed her in farewell, and she watched until he disappeared from sight.

Weary from the never-ending adventures of the bizarre day – which had gone nothing like she planned, but at least they both survived it – Christine exchanged her soiled clothes for her velvet robe and slippers. She took a torch from the wall, eager to visit their heated sanctuary, where for a time, lives troubles dissolved with the steam rising from the water. At least Erik was no longer upset with her, the memory of his long parting kiss a sure sign he had not wished to leave her company.

Once nestled deep in the embracing spring waters, while resting on the stone ledge that she claimed as her spot, since the day she and Erik made love there, Christine laid her head back in peace.

The sound of a distant scream startled her from oblivion. She shot upright and stared at the rock wall behind her in horror.

.

**xXx**

.

A maelstrom of chaotic thought urged Raoul homeward, and he rode his steed with determination to reach the premises before his parents could leave the estate. His encounter with the Phantom at the cemetery, followed by his enlightening talk with Giry of the wretch's location eleven years ago prompted a memory of the past…

_"Come, Lotte, it will be alright," Raoul urged._

_Christine held back, her eyes huge with apprehension as she stared at the tent before her and the sign looming above, proclaiming that a Living Corpse resided within._

_"No, Raoul, I don't want to go in there…" She nervously eyed those who had recently exited the tent, mostly men. A few women. Some looked grim, others shaken. "I want to go back to Papa and sing some more."_

_Raoul had found her on a street corner earlier, doing what she enjoyed most - singing and dancing to her father's violin as the appreciative crowds watched and threw money into a hat. "He said you could come, and it's not every day a carnival comes around. Come on, Lotte, I'll protect you. Don't I always?"_

"_But those dragons are pretend."_

"_I can vanquish the real monsters too."_

_She almost relented until the barker approached, a filthy gypsy with hard eyes. "If you have no coin, you can't go inside."_

_"I have money," Raoul boasted, waving the bills Mother had given him._

_Avarice lit the man's eyes as he took the lot._

_"Hey!" Raoul complained._

_"The price of admission is high," the gypsy wickedly smiled. "What you will see is beyond the realm of imagination and the most terrible thing you will ever know. A true Living Corpse, the Angel of Death incarnate - once the Devil's own child..."_

_Christine whimpered. "I don't want to see." She pulled her hand from Raoul's. "Please, Raoul. Let's go see the acrobats instead…"_

_"Later," he sighed. "But I want to see this. Wait for me here, then." He was determined to witness what living death looked like and snatched the bills from the man's hand, leaving only one._

_"You little snit." The gypsy raised a beefy hand to smite him, but Raoul drew himself up as much as his puny, twelve-year stature could to appear unmoved by the threat._

_"My father is a Comte, and if you lay one hand on me, he'll see justice is done."_

_It was enough to deter the gypsy, and with a reassuring nod to Christine, Raoul marched inside the tent._

_The area was dim and crowded, the odor of mildew pervasive. He could barely see ahead, and his attempts to get closer went unrewarded as he was jostled by men three times his size – in manner and form nothing like the well bred gentlemen that were his father's friends._

_"I want to see too," he insisted repeatedly, craning his neck to look between men._

_A pair of strong hands grabbed his arms. "The lad wants to see," his captor mocked, "so let's give him a good look."_

_Answering sneers of laughter came from the men closest. Raoul was jostled up to the front of a cage, losing his cap in the process, and held prisoner in a bruising grip._

_"Let me go," he nervously demanded then forgot all else as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he watched the lid of a glossy black casket open. From within, a bony apparition, barely clothed in tattered cloths as if mummified, rose to sit and just as slowly turned his head to stare._

_Raoul gaped in horror, having never seen such a terrible sight. The face was twisted on one side, deformed, the bones sharply defined against thin, translucent skin, the entirety of him so white as to be bloodless. Tall candelabrums placed nearby reflected in his fearsome eyes, making them glow. Or perhaps the creature truly had fire in them._

_"I am the Angel of Death…"_

_A strange, hypnotic beauty composed the thing's voice, which seemed to float around them in waves, first to the right, then behind, then to the left, never coming from the casket itself. And then the thing laughed, an evil sound that chilled Raoul's flesh to the bone._

_**"None can escape me!"**_

_"Merde…" one of the men muttered. A woman screamed when the thing pointed its long index finger her way._

_"You too will one day be like me," the creature said. "Perhaps sooner than you think…"_

_She fainted. Or perhaps died on the spot from fright._

_"Let me go," Raoul whimpered, struggling in the ruffian's hold, kicking at his shins and at last breaking free. He fled the tent, pushing past those in his path until he again emerged into safe daylight._

_"Raoul?" Christine looked at him anxiously. "Your face is so white. Did you see a ghost?"_

_He shivered at her choice of words. "Trust me, Lotte," he rasped when he could compose himself enough to talk, "you don't want to know…."_

He never told her of the macabre sideshow, and she never again asked.

At the stable, he quickly dismounted, handing his reins over to the boy.

"Have they left?"

"No, my lord. I was just given orders to ready the carriage."

Raoul nodded and strode to the manor. He found his parents in his father's study.

His father rifled through his desk, sticking papers into a leather attaché case in haphazard fashion. His mother paced near the lit hearth, a glass of brandy held between clenched hands. Easily two decades younger than his father, today she appeared nearly as old. Her face was taut with strain and lines of worry, strands of her coiffed fair hair out of place.

"Raoul, thank heavens you're here," she said in relief. "I was worried we would have to leave without you. Giles has packed your things. We leave shortly."

He spoke of the matter uppermost in his thoughts. "Eleven years ago - before Father so abruptly ended our vacation and we left the resort by the sea - I overheard you both arguing. You were frightened that people would find out and said something about having thought you'd gotten rid of the problem. Father was angry that you lied to him and was afraid of the scandal if the truth were uncovered. He said we must leave at once. I had come home earlier from the sideshow and told one of the maids what I'd seen. About the Living Corpse. She told you, didn't she?"

"I- I don't remember anything of that day." His mother seemed to pale even more and took an unsteady drink from her glass.

"What problem were you referring to, Mother?"

"What infernal nonsense is this?" his father barked, his stony face florid. "The Commune is looming ever nearer, about to break down our doors, and you wish to speak of events that happened _eleven years ago?_"

"Your father received another letter," his mother explained, a frantic hitch to her usually composed voice. "They again ordered him to meet with them, to give a hefty part of his fortune to their cause, and warned that if he does not yield this time, we, too, could suffer Lord Dubois's fate."

Raoul grimaced, not surprised by the news, since the first letter mirrored it, without mention of Dubois. But he wasn't so easily deterred. "What were you talking about that day, Mother, in Perros-Guirec? You must have some recollection."

She turned to the fire. "I tell you I don't…I'll be so thankful once we're gone from Paris."

Realizing that in her distress he would not gain the information needed, he went to his mother and kissed her cheek.

"Have a safe journey."

She blinked in horror. "You're _not_ staying…"

"I am. I told you this last night."

"Edwin, tell him he cannot stay!" She directed her words to his father.

"Raoul, what rubbish is this? Of course you're coming with us." His father set his jaw like flint, and with a sickening realization, Raoul recalled where he had seen similarities of those features.

"No, Father, I'm staying. I don't intend to keep residence within the manor," he assured his mother. "I'm moving into the carriage house, since Peter is going with you."

"But - _why on earth should you wish to do that?_"

"I have business in Paris. Don't worry, no one will know me. I'll be just another driver. As far as anyone knows, I went with you to our country home in Rouen. Those who have never seen me won't know the difference."

"And those who have?"

He shrugged. "Only those at the Opera House know. The managers won't give me away."

"It's that common little opera singer, isn't it?" his mother scoffed. "I've heard tales about her and that Phantom that rules the theater."

He didn't miss his father's sharp stare directed toward his mother, who continued to look at Raoul. Nor did he offer any explanation to the contrary about the dancer who'd recently won his interest. He had not spoken in depth with them since New Year's Eve, when he still hoped to woo Chrsitine, and had been met with the same vitriol. He and his busy parents were never close when he was a boy, and Raoul had gained his own interests having nothing to do with them once he became a man.

Awkward with long goodbyes, he again bid them a safe journey - ignoring his father's outrage and his mother's disgust. He ascended the stairs, grateful Giles had packed for him. He would move into the carriage house tonight, but first must see to his arm, which thankfully his long cloak hid. He'd had no desire to give an accounting of his wound to his mother – though it might have been the medium to gain what answers he sought.

When he was five, in his solo adventures he wandered across an attic trunk of things belonging to a child. When his nurse found him, she had snatched the small crude mask from his face in horror and told him never to snoop in the forbidden room again, that some things were best left ignored and forgotten.

"Giles," he spotted his manservant on the second landing. "I'll need your help with my arm. I ran into some trouble." They both walked to his bedchamber. "Also, please see to it that a trunk is moved to the carriage house from the attic, along with what you packed. Last I saw, the trunk was beneath a window, three leather straps securing it."

"Very good, sir. Will you be joining your parents in the country?"

"No, and I won't be needing your services any longer."

"Monsieur?" Giles looked stunned.

"In light of current events, I've decided it's unwise. I suggest you go visit your sister, in Dorchester. You mentioned she recently had a baby?"

"Oui, she did. I should like that very much. It's been years since we've seen each other."

"Than by all means, go. I'll send for you when things return to normal."

Once his servant bandaged his arm, Raoul returned downstairs and found the house empty. The others servants had left the previous day to ready the country house for his parents' arrival, only a core few remaining to see to the upkeep of the manor.

He took one last look around the dwelling that no matter its occupancy had always felt empty, donned his long overcoat and gloves, and headed out the door.

Early evening darkness had already settled in. He had gone no more than half the distance down the wooded path when he heard the sound of a twig crack beneath a shoe.

Raoul spun around to look. The dull thud of something heavy bludgeoned his skull and sent fire to his brain, rendering him unconscious.

**xXx**

* * *

**A/N: Oops. :)**

**And so the mystery of why Raoul's parents so mysteriously left the seaside that summer, without giving Raoul a chance to say goodbye to Christine (as children) is cleared up. I have been eagerly awaiting writing this phase of the story… ;-)**


	48. Bliss or damnation?

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews…this chapter deserves the rating (and please forgive any flaws as it was only looked at by me)- and now...**

* * *

**Chapter XLVIII**

**.**

By the time Christine reached the main chamber, she convinced herself the scream had come from a four-footed creature and not a man. She had certainly not been lucid enough to discern if the cry had been human or beast. Had Erik known that she lingered long enough to fall asleep in the heated waters, he would not have been pleased, his last words to her not to soak too long for fear of that very occurrence. Perhaps the cry had issued from her dream, put there by her magician husband who somehow perceived her slumbering condition and woke her before she could slip unconscious beneath the bubbling waters and drown.

She giggled at the absurd thought, then wondered if it was truly all that absurd. He possessed some level of mystical power, though she did not know the full scope of it. She had witnessed his ability to move things with a wave of his hand and had seen him illumine a room with fire out of nowhere, more than once. Perhaps when they were apart, he could also illumine her mind with a warning, just as easily as he once sung into her dreams through his ventriloquism …

Or, perhaps it had been a ghost.

Christine looked around the huge empty chamber. After all of what happened here, she was more inclined to believe that a vigilant specter from the netherworld had issued the shrill and distant caveat. From what Erik shared of that night, the Spirit of the Present shadow-world had seemed almost congenial, (though he described her as an empty-headed nuisance), yet troubled for his soul … how bizarre that the merry young woman had appeared to him with the visage of Meg. Perhaps a sign that deep down, despite his former annoyances with her dearest friend, he trusted her, since the second spirit told Erik they resembled those people familiar to him, who he would associate to those roles. Madame Giry's spiritual doppelganger had come to reveal his past. Since they'd known one another as children and she had led him underground to safety, it was conceivable he would think of Antoinette Giry in that role. Christine shivered at the thought of the skeletal apparition he described as the Ghost of future shadows…death incarnate. But at that time, Erik thought death was all the future could ever hold for him.

Christine darted a wary glance toward the closed gate, half expecting to see one of the ghouls materialize.

She dearly wished _her_ _Phantom_ would appear. The chamber was too silent and hollow and cold without his presence to warm it and bring it to life.

Her thoughts of the specter brought her to think about earlier, in the cemetery. She drew her brows together in puzzled dismay at the memory of his retelling of the eve of Christmas night and other words he used when describing himself today. Living Corpse. Devil's Child … he had called himself that horrid name twice before, when they were in the chapel before he'd torn away his mask in a furor, and when he had revealed to her the truth of his lineage. But the despicable names linked together spurred a nervous familiarity she failed to understand.

Where had she heard those demeaning names? Not from Buquet, who in his foolish ditties had called him a demon and a monster that bore the face of a skull, but she could not recall him using _those_ specific titles …

No matter how hard she struggled to reach the solution her head remained in a fog that refused to clear … a memory that played inside the edges but would not reveal itself completely.

Annoyed with the workings of her mind – or the lack thereof – she resolved to forget the desire to remember. The day had been filled with enough frustrations to add to their weight. Hungry again, Christine ate from the remainder of their picnic then brushed tidbits of apple and juice from her hands and put away a portion for Erik in the cold box.

Now she wished that she had asked to go with him. After their altercation with Raoul, bitter scenarios began weaving their barbs inside her thoughts and she feared that the Vicomte had again found and cornered Erik – this time absent of her plea to stop him from enacting his foul deed.

She grabbed a small pocket watch, found during her attempts to tidy the lair, a feat she should again try to undergo soon, though tonight she was too exhausted to try. Was it night? A glance at the dial of the watch told her it was past dark above, the sun having long set, though in her and her Phantom-Angel's world, it was always a time of shadow and candlelight. She brought the watch to her ear, the ticking of the mechanism assuring her it was still wound, then wound it again to be on the safe side.

To pass the time and force her mind away from the concern that something had happened to her beloved, Christine sat on the edge of their bed and practiced the magic trick he'd taught her. He called it sleight of hand – one moment the watch visible in her palm, then in a deceptive wave, seeming to vanish from sight. She worked at the lesson tirelessly, until at last, she succeeded, and the watch, to her eyes, did seem to disappear without visible knowledge that it was in fact concealed up her flowing sleeve. She laughed in triumph, though she needed to keep her arm at an angle to keep it from tumbling out, and realized the trick would only work well if the sleeves were tight or banded at the cuff.

Deciding to exchange her velvet wrapper for the ancient nightdress, she quickly traded one for the other, the air chill upon her skin. After a quick adjustment of the pipe's covering to release warm air into the chamber, she returned to her practice, made more difficult with the closer fitting sleeve. She was determined not only to learn what Erik had shared of his magic but to excel in it, and imagined performing the trick for him effortlessly and the admiration that was sure to be his. She might even persuade him to teach her another trick …

Giddy with the idea, she continued. Soon, however, as more and more of the minutes ticked away, she wearied of the practice and decided to lie down and rest. She doubted sleep would come without him there and again convinced herself that he was alright. He was the Phantom, the Opera Ghost. This was his domain and had been for over a decade. He would know to keep himself concealed or to escape into untraceable shadows. He certainly had enough hidden entrances for that!

Christine set the watch on a nearby table and commenced with her nightly ablutions, the last of them pulling her thick hair over one shoulder and brushing out the cobweb of tangles. Erik had lately taken over the bothersome task, seeming to acquire enjoyment from issuing the multitude of strokes, and she always reveled in the feel of his hands at her scalp and gliding through her locks. Aided by such memories, at long last her hair became a smooth rippling curtain, and she turned back to the bed and pulled down the coverlet. She straightened to grab the pillow which had ended up at the foot of the bed after their wild passion play of that morning.

The sudden brush of his cool fingertips at her nape startled her and Christine took in a quick breath at his distinctive silent entrance – relieved he was finally home – but the harsh sound of material being torn as he swiftly rent her voluminous bed gown to the waist made her give a surprised little shriek. The cool air of the chamber, not yet fully warmed, rushed against her skin.

"Erik! What are you – _doing?!_"

She gasped the last word as he spun her around. Her heart gave a mad jump to see the fire of desire blaze hot in his eyes. With a deft move he pulled the draping gown free of her shoulders and arms, pushing it to fall to her ankles. His eyes roved down her bared flesh in hungered appreciation, his roguish behavior exciting her and making her go instantly wet. His burning eyes lifted to meet hers, and she felt dizzy with the same need. But she blinked with confusion at his fierce act.

"Why did you do that?" she whispered.

"That bed gown and I have a bad rapport," he said silkily, his hands going to her hips as he slowly backed her toward the bed. "I do not wish to see it on you."

She fell to the coverlet. "Well, there's no longer any chance of that. Really, Erik, you could have _asked_ me to remove the gown instead of utterly destroying it."

"There was a tear at the neck," he flippantly excused his action while unbuttoning his waistcoat. "I felt it best to put the wretched thing out of its misery."

She watched his actions as he doffed his coat, her fingers aching to touch both his hard smooth flesh and the scarred. She had to remind herself that she was put out with his churlish behavior.

"You can't just go tearing off my clothes every time you don't like them!"

"I'll replace them with whatever you most desire."

Mesmerized, she watched his nimble fingers make quick work of his cravat and shirt, his every movement fluid poetry. Swiftly he dispensed with both to the ground, in the direction he'd flung the waistcoat.

"So, is that your way of telling me not to form too fond an attachment with any of my new garments?" She licked her lips at the sight of her husband standing half naked before her.

"Tell me what frocks you prefer, and I'll leave those alone." He smirked in wicked mockery. "But in truth, mon amour, you have no use for any of those garments in our bed. Any garments at all."

A giggle slipped out before she could prevent it, and immediately she grew stern in expression. Her body was flushed from both embarrassment and desire, though the girlish modesty had depleted over the weeks they had shared in wedlock, and the yearning to be with her lover was her strongest emotion. In truth, his uninhibited acts of tearing away her clothing in his hunger to be one with her only instigated and sharpened her desire. Though she refrained from telling him that for fear it would then become a nightly ritual – and she wished to keep at least some of her beautiful gowns intact, especially those he had designed. He had only torn away what he never gave her – three costumes and the bed gown – but that could change.

"You truly are wicked," she scolded.

He lowered himself to her, bracing his hands on either side, a dangerous wildcat hungry to be with its mate. She lay fully back on the coverlet, her hands moving to smooth over his wrists up to as far as she could reach of his forearms. Her fingertips brushed the a tail of the cloth binding his arm, but clearly he suffered no pain from his earlier wound.

"Have you not heard, my dear…?" His cool lips brushed above her stomach, directly below her breasts, and she quivered at the sensation and the warmth of his breath tickling her skin. "I'm the Phantom of the Opera."

"Phantom or not, I should still be cross with you," she whispered in soft accusation, their banter losing its playful sharp edge as her mind was fast losing its grip on such silly words and her body begged her to forget them. "You're certainly no angel in or out of disguise."

He chuckled and licked her navel. She grew wetter when she realized the course his mouth was taking.

"_Such_ _indignation_ over an inferior garment of opera house issue…" He lightly scraped his teeth over her hip in punishment, and she groaned.

"That wasn't the point," she breathed. "The point is…" She gasped as she felt his nose nuzzle against her soft curls and heard him deeply inhale. His hand moved to slip between her legs, his thumb parting the nether lips of her womanhood, and her breathing elevated.

She could no longer remember the foolish point.

"Perhaps I can find a way to make it up to you, my dear…"

His words were a low purr, rich and warm and beautiful, and she groaned again as he laved her needy flesh. His low, pleasured groan answered in echo as his lips enclosed her bud and gently he suckled. She shivered, moving her hands from clutching the coverlet to entwining in his hair.

"So, so wet…" he whispered against her and she whimpered at the sensation that brought. She felt him smile against her thigh. "You like that, Mon Ange?" Gently he blew against her sensitized skin and she mewled another whimper. "So fragrant … my sweet, sweet Christine… the taste of you, divine…" He let his whispered breaths stir her flesh again, and her pleasure heightened another degree. Shifting his other hand he spread her leg wider, fully exposing her to his hungry lips and tongue.

Her release came immediate but he continued to drink of her arousal. Surprised to feel no ultra sensitivity there, as usually was the case, she reveled in all that he did.

He peered up at her. "You are alright? There is no discomfort?"

At his husky question, she realized he must know. Had _she_ _**told**_ _him?!_

At her half embarrassed/half dazed nod, he smiled in triumph. "Excellent."

"But how…"

Before she could finish her raspy query of how he had gained such intimate knowledge that she could not remember conveying, he resumed his sweet torture. Soon forgetting all else, she rocked beneath him as he took her to another plane of delicious sensation. Again he brought her to completion; again he lingered. But she could bear no more. Needing to feel him inside her, to feel all of his body pressed to hers, she pulled his head away.

"Please…" she whispered.

Crawling up to her, he braced his forearms near her head, lowering his own to kiss her soundly. Her palms cupping each side of his head, she felt the awkward half mask against her fingers and cheek, also feeling it give. It sat slightly ajar, his sensual ministrations to her flesh knocking it asunder or his own hand having pushed it away.

"It's late," she whispered, "the paste is loose. Take it off or I will."

He hesitated. "It is so important, Christine?"

"Yes, yes it is. You wish for me not to wear clothing to bed. I wish for you to do the same. It is only fair, Erik."

"I can hardly be called a just man."

"You are though. With me. And your mask counts as clothing, since you once said you feel naked without it. I want you entirely naked with me, Erik. I want to kiss you as deeply as I like and as much as I want without always bumping into _that_…"

As she spoke, she gently wiggled the white covering, testing the give, the perspiration on his face also an aid to soften the paste she felt sure. As she hoped, he did not wince, and feeling it was loosened enough – that he would stop her if it wasn't – she cautiously peeled the hindrance away, relieved when no skin came with it. Victoriously she tossed it to the ground. Pieces of the goo he had used dangled in small gray clumps from his face, the strange sight not cooling her desire for him one bit, and she brushed the excess away with her fingertips while grabbing him to her and slanting her lips against his. Thrusting her tongue deeply into his mouth, she delighted in his guttural moan of need, her hands moving to his shoulders, to his chest, and impatiently to his trousers.

In her haste to unleash what they concealed, her fingers fumbled at the fastenings. With both hands she pulled at the material impatiently, elated when there was a sudden give, and at once she empathized with his former acts to whisk away all clothing in whatever manner was most expedient. He moved his hand to cover one of hers, stopping her before she could break loose another button.

"Unlike your plentiful trousseau, there are not a wide array of these for you to tear," he teased as he then began to unfasten the row of stubborn buttons.

"Then we shall have to consign a tailor to make you extras," she whispered, her face flushing with her bold words, but by the flare of his eyes, he enjoyed her naughtiness, and she endeavored to be even naughtier.

Her hand slipped beneath his loosened waistband before he could finish his task, and she giggled to see his deft fingers suddenly fumble as her eager ones closed around his swollen shaft. She stroked the hard silken length of him as he had taught her, and he hissed through his teeth, tearing the last button free, ripping it from its threads and pushing the hindering trousers away from his hips and down lean, muscled legs. With her foot, she helped rid him of the clothing, impatiently sliding it down his skin.

A bead of liquid pearled at the broad tip of his manhood, and she spread her thumb across, wetting all the skin there with its warmth, wondering how he would taste…wondering if she had the courage to try to take his fullness into her mouth, afraid she might choke without his instruction. Afraid she might inadvertently hurt him…

He had never once asked her to execute the act, even hinted at it, and she had begun to wonder if he was averse to the idea. In the chapel that long-ago day, when she confessed to him her viewing of Chantel's penned sketch, he had been as disgusted as she was wounded to think he'd sought others for such ministrations. He was always quite vocal in expressing what he desired and with inquiring what she liked – she still blushed at his candor, though of late she found herself speaking nearly as assertively…he enjoyed providing her with oral favors in abundance – if she tried to please him that way, would he also feel the incredible range of pleasure he gave to her? The thought increased her desire to attempt it …

She moved her hand from his throbbing thickness, placing both palms to his chest, but before she could follow through with her plan to push him to his back, he moved away to kick off his trousers, then swiftly returned to her. Grabbing her thigh and bringing it around his hip he plunged deep into her body in one desperate thrust.

Christine gasped at the sensation, clutching his sides, her fingertips digging into his heated skin. His lovemaking, always passionate, tonight held a frantic quality that perplexed her mind as much as it inflamed her senses. Within moments his mood had swung from playful seduction to obsessive possession and with each furious plunge that fused them together she grabbed to him tightly, her fingers pressing furrows down his back.

"We belong together," he panted in a growl as he gave another hard plunge. "You must never leave me… _never_ will you leave me…_**you cannot!**_" He gritted his teeth and pulled away, grabbing her buttock and burying himself deeper inside her so nothing would ever part them. Sweat dripped from his hair and his skin, branding her with every drop. "Say it … Christine. No matter what happens, no matter what you're told – _**swear that you'll never leave me**_**!**"

"I never will – I _**never could**_!" she cried hoarsely.

"_**Swear it!**_"

"_**I do! I swear by all that is holy – I'll never leave you, Erik!**_"

Torn by the despondent fear she heard behind each of his gruff demands and the harsh sob that followed her adamant reply, at the same time the fiery pleasure he instilled almost more than she could bear, she grasped him to her as tightly as she was able. Her senses awhirl, willingly she drowned in the wake of his passion as she moved with him through the crowning point that brought them both to the plateau of high bliss, their bodily fulfillment absolute.

They clung to one another, long after their flesh cooled and the beating of their hearts and the rasping of their breaths eased into a soothing calm. After a time, he broke their connection, so slowly, as if he did not wish to, and rolled to his side, drawing her close. She nestled into his warmth, barely aware when she felt the satin coverlet brush against her skin.

"I'll always be with you, Erik," she murmured as he cocooned them both within the blanket's warm folds. "I love you so much…you make me feel alive…"

"You are my life."

She was hardly cognizant when she felt his lips brush her hair.

But when she woke, once again alert, it was to find herself alone in their bed.

.

**xXx**

.

Meg edged past the slumbering dancers and crept out of the dormitory, with no lantern or candle to light her way. The curfew was now being strictly enacted, as of yesterday. She should have told the Vicomte of the change in routine, but with the shock of all that happened in her mother's office it had slipped her mind. Not to meet him wasn't even an option; she wanted to hear what he had to say.

Familiar with sneaking about, Meg felt no qualms to do so again. She would just have to be more cautious not to get caught, since the penalties could be strict, dismissal from the chorus the worst of them. Months ago, Maman followed her into the gloomy corridor behind the mirror door when Christine first went to be with her Phantom. At the time Meg had only received a scare when her mother clapped a hand to her shoulder – followed by a scolding and a warning never to speak of her discovery to anyone, and never to go there alone again.

The penalties would be far worse now that the managers had gotten involved in the edict.

In the past, on nights when the opera was performed before an audience, the revelry often went on into the early morning hours, but on weekday evenings it had been an understood rule that each member of the chorus, particularly the women, were to be in their own rooms to retire by ten o'clock. Understood but rarely carried out. Some chose to obey, but other dancers preferred to flit about the corridors in the forbidden hours, many of them taking part in acts equally forbidden, while never truly fearful of lasting repercussions should they be caught. Especially if those acts were shared with those who had the clout to speak up for them. The dancer, Marie, had been the exception, and an undercurrent of shock had rippled through the corps de ballet to learn of her sacking.

Meg felt that any lassitude to enforce the rules had changed now that the new managers ruled over the opera house, at times of late seen in the company of the same man, a stranger to Meg. One night that man had waylaid Christine, appearing to be a persistent fan. Another time Meg had witnessed him in the company of Buquet and the redheaded tart and wondered if he truly was something so innocuous as an opera follower. She had begun to think he might be a silent partner in the business…

Carefully she felt her way along the wall and to the stairs, wreathed in shadows, to the larger room beneath. The circular windows of the foyer cast puddles of moonlight over the expansive marble floor and reflected off the golden statues, making it easier to see. Had she taken the path backstage to the theater, there would have been a greater risk of running into someone, and even by those who might also be breaking curfew, she did not wish to be seen.

She tried a door, one of many that formed a wide arc, all leading into the theater, but it was stuck. She tried another with the same results, then realized the doors were not stuck but locked. In all likelihood, another change that had been enforced, like the curfew.

Upset that she might have to walk halfway around the entire building and take the backstage route after all, Meg moved to the right and tried every door in the row of them. The last one opened and she exhaled in relief. Whether it had been forgotten or left that way on purpose she felt no hesitation, grateful for a way inside. She reasoned that the Vicomte could have unlocked it and let himself into the theater, since as sole patron and an authority over the management, it was plausible that he would hold a key to every door in the opera house.

She slipped into the enclosed amphitheater with its cathedral-like dome, the chill of the huge room accosting her through the thick wool of her dress. She should have worn a cape. The corridors leading into the theater and the room itself were always so cold. Usually on stage, the discomfort went unnoticed with the flames from the many stage lights and exertions of the dance warming her flesh.

As her eyes adjusted to the darker surroundings, she gasped at the sight of someone looming close. She jumped back, startled, before she realized it was her own face reflected in one of the mirrors along the wall. She pressed a hand to her pounding heart, forcing herself to expel a breath, and moved toward the end box, hoping to get a bird's eye view of the theater and locate the Vicomte more easily.

She parted the heavy black curtains and stepped through the opening and past the two rows of five upholstered chairs. A pillar stood at each side enclosing the private box. _His_ box, and a little shiver coursed through her to acknowledge her surroundings. She hoped he would not mind her visiting his private box, since he usually took offense with intruders, demanding that Box Five remain empty and threatening those who refused to heed his orders. But surely he was with Christine in their home beneath the earth and had no inkling that she was here.

Pulling aside the red velvet drape that flanked the banister, Meg looked into the darkened theater. Someone had left a torch lit near the stage, providing a modicum of light, and her eyes struggled to make out shapes that did not belong to the theater. Near the furthest wing of the stage, what she thought was a prop suddenly moved. She leaned forward, her pulse quickening with a heightened mix of alarm and anticipation.

"Monsieur le Vicomte?" she loudly whispered, "Is that you?"

The figure turned, but she could not discern his face beneath his hat.

"I cannot get into the theater from the main floor," she explained. "All the doors are locked save for the one that led up to this box."

"Yes…"

When he whispered nothing more, she anxiously cleared her throat. "Perhaps … perhaps you could come up here and we could talk without all this distance and these stage whispers? They are horrid on the throat." She gave a little nervous laugh but dared not raise her voice for fear of being heard by anyone lingering backstage.

The figure below turned to look up toward the box, the light from the lamp shining fully on his face.

"Merde," she breathed, clapping her hand over her mouth and backing up. She let the curtain fall back in place, her mind struggling to figure out what it all meant. Knowing it could not be good – certain of the fact when she heard him run along the stage and down the aisle.

Suddenly terrified, she pivoted and ran for the corridor, desperate to make it to the foyer before he could get there.

From inside the theater, she heard the hollow echo of running footsteps reach the outer doors. Her heart pounded when she realized there was no way she could make it before he did.

In the pitch darkness, she felt along the mirrored wall, leaning into it, with her fingertips at the ledge. Her legs trembled while she moved as quickly as she could without any light to guide her. Her shaky fingers encountered a bump and inadvertently she pressed it as she tried not to stumble.

At once the wall gave, swinging inward, and with a sharp little cry of surprised alarm, Meg went with it.

.

**xXx**

.

Christine waited for some time, but Erik did not return. Concerned, she crawled out of bed and put on her slippers. In the absence of her wrapper, which was nowhere nearby, she wrapped the coverlet around her shoulders, pulling it close over her breasts, and left their bedchamber.

At the top of the staircase, she clutched the back of the throne with one hand and looked past the empty bench near the pipe organ and out over the main living area. The only candelabras lit were on the other side of the chamber, and it took a moment before her eyes adjusted well enough to see that he sat near the shoreline, almost directly below where she stood.

Carefully, somewhat awkwardly, she made her way down the stone steps, careful not to step on the trailing coverlet. She approached her silent husband, noting that he wore only his velvet robe, his feet bare. Any fleeting thought of remarking with levity, chiding him for not wearing his slippers when he always told her to do the same, fled when she noted the defeated slump of his shoulders. He continued to stare out over the mist and water as if he'd not heard her, but by the slight flinch of his eyes, she was certain he was aware of her presence.

"Erik?" she whispered, trying to keep her tone light. She shifted with the coverlet when he didn't respond. "Is everything alright…? Why are you here?" Slowly she sank down beside him, curling her legs close to her body, and laid her hand on his shoulder. "Was it the dream again?"

At her troubled whisper he blinked as if coming out of a stupor then slowly turned his head to look at her.

"Dream?"

His voice, always beautiful, came hoarse with great emotion, and she saw anguish in his eyes before he looked away and back to the water.

"Mon Ange…" She brought her other hand up to cup the left side of his face, pressing her lips to his scarred and mottled right cheek. "Let me help you."

"You cannot help…" he said after a moment. "The Fates will have their way. It is inevitable."

"What do you mean?" she pleaded softly. "Why are you _saying_ this?"

"The Future always demands its way, Christine. The shadows are always there to ensnare…"

"Erik." She clutched his shoulder more tightly, pressing her palm against his face. "Erik, look at me! Whatever is wrong, we can fix this."

"I cannot be 'fixed' like a faulty opera. It is not so simple. For me, it can _never_ be so simple…"

"Alright- then just let me be there for you. Please, darling, please don't shut me out. Let me be your wife in all ways that matter."

She felt the warmth of his tears wet her cheek and turned her lips to brush the moisture away, tasting his pain.

"One day, it will not be enough for you. One day it will be too much."

At his raspy whisper of contradiction that made no sense she held him even closer.

"After all we have been through together – why would you say such things…?"

He did not answer, only shook his head.

"Tell me, what happened in Persia? You were there, weren't you? It torments you, enough to enter your dreams. I have seen it, heard your cries. What _happened _there?"

The words, always bubbling near the surface of her curiosity, slipped out of their own volition. Christine prepared herself for his withdrawal, expecting him to tense, to grow upset or evasive as in times past. Instead, he seemed to fade in stature as if he truly were a ghost. He uttered one syllable beneath his breath, sending an insidious chill throughout the core of her soul.

"Death."

His tone came emotionless and empty, freezing her heart, and she grabbed him more tightly to her but couldn't prevent the quivering of her limbs.

Erik gave no response, remaining motionless as if he did not sense her. Though he felt her, with every fiber of his being. Logic maliciously told him the conclusion of what must be … ever since that moment today at the cemetery after his skirmish with the Vicomte … the moment that had entered his dreams a short time ago. There, she learned all of the truth and had run from him. Had run to the boy.

It failed to matter that he had done all within his power to prevent the sword fight at the cemetery and all other occurrences from happening – the spirits possessed more power. In the end, they would win. He could fiercely disavow their pronouncements and hide her away beneath the earth forever, but she would surely grow to hate him if he cut her off from the world that was familiar to her and from her friends. No doubt if he were to keep her with him, her insatiable curiosity would be the tactic the spirits would use to bring about their malodorous desires. She would learn the truth of Persia … only minutes ago, she had again asked. The trap was set, one of their making and not his own – waiting for him to fall into its snapping, destructive jaws that would rend his soul.

He should just tell her and defeat the spirits in their wicked game of fate. But the triumph would be hollow, a blade that cut both ways, the loss too immense.

A tear slipped out and he closed his eyes against the bitter pain of his pathetic cowardice.

He could not tell her. For what little time he had left to share in her presence, for what little time she remained ignorant to the darkest of all his sins- he would keep his foul heart beating by clinging to the only woman he had ever loved and never speaking of those evil days of degradation and survival.

"The past cannot be changed. There is no point in speaking of its tyranny. Shadows of the future also cannot be changed…" He turned his head to look at her, the murky green of his eyes so full of sorrow and hopelessness it made her catch her breath. "One day, you will realize that too. And on that day, I fear it will be too much…"

"No, Erik. Stop it. Stop saying such things. We changed the future – it will never be what you saw that night. It never can be … _you_ changed that!"

Despite her desire to convince him, her smile trembled to hear him speak with such conviction, and he only gave a bare nod of acknowledgment as if he didn't believe her.

"Erik, my love…" She pressed her palm to his jaw, desperate to make him understand. She stroked his face, trailing her fingertips along his cheekbone to his ear again and again. "I will _never_ leave you. The ghosts know only of shadows, but they don't know my heart. _You_ are my heart. To leave you behind would be to enact my own death."

Tears glistened in his eyes and she pressed her forehead to his, feeling the sting of her own tears.

"Please, believe _in me_, Mon Ange. Believe in _my love_…"

"For so many years, the entirety of my life until you came into it, I have known only hatred. Fear and doubt and vengeance were all that was given me for companions. I don't know how to believe in hope, Christine," he sobbed. "I have tried, these months with you, bringing you into my world, but I _don't know __**how**_…"

The tears ran freely down their cheeks.

"Just, no matter what happens around us – don't give up on me," she pleaded. "On _us._ Please, Erik, don't push me away."

Her anguished words sparked a reaction and he grabbed her to him fiercely.

"_Never _would I do that," he protested, burying his lips in her neck, his arms tightly wrapped around her middle. "You are a part of me now. You belong to me!"

Christine smoothed her hand along the back of his head. "I feel the same, with you. So please cease this talk of darkness … there would be no light in my world without you in it." She shivered again, the icy rock seeping through the coverlet and into her bones. "Come, my love. Let us go back to bed. It's cold by this lake."

She urged him with her arms. Thankfully he gave no protest, and holding to one another, also using the wall of rock at their backs as a brace, they stood. Keeping the coverlet around herself and supporting him was awkward, and Christine stumbled on the material before they reached the stairs. He saved her from falling – and in the next instant scooped her up in his arms.

She looped her arm around his neck and he opened his mouth to speak.

"Christine…"

At his apprehensive tone and her fear of his further doubt, she pressed her finger to his lips.

"No, Erik. No more. Take me to bed. I want to go to sleep lying in your arms. And I want to wake up in them. I don't ever want to be without you."

The ghost of a smile traced his lips though his eyes remained sadly wistful. He carried her to their bed, gently laying her upon the mattress. She shifted the bedding so that it again covered her and pulled a corner back in invitation. He looked at her a moment before removing his wrapper and stretching out his long length beside her. Immediately she scooted close, and he wrapped his arm around her back, drawing her to him.

Resting her cheek and hand against his chest, she closed her eyes, drawing reassurance from his nearness and the beating of his heart … Unable to shake her own disquiet that had haunted her for much of the day, with Marie's confession, the discovery at Tina's home, the fight at the cemetery …

… something dangerous and dark lurked around the corner of their future, waiting for them in the shadows.

Erik's fears had only underscored her own.

xXx


End file.
